


This Rule I Propose

by Edward_Fairfax



Series: Points and Counterpoint [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Operas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-05 14:57:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 142,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10310795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edward_Fairfax/pseuds/Edward_Fairfax
Summary: The continuation ofAnd For the Record:“I haven't heard anything about that.  Of course,” Sid admitted, “I haven't been looking.  Have you, Andrew?”“I've been a little preoccupied,” Andrew said dryly.  “You know, with the wedding planner from hell.  AKA my father.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I was writing And For the Record, I had always planned to end the main story where it did, but had also intended there to be a little epilogue. This--all 21 chapters of it--is that epilogue. It is a leisurely account of what happened after the game: Sid and Andrew's summer vacation, if you will.  
>   
> If the weather cooperates (we're in the middle of a blizzard), I'll be posting a large chunk of the first section tomorrow, and a chapter a day after that: but I really wanted the first chapter to appear on its own. (For the record: the unofficial title of this chapter is "Private Moments.")  
>   
> I hope you all enjoy it!

_Approximately three hours previously:_

> _@squirrelgurl_ omg...its the fucking hockey tenor! _#whoissidssasha_
> 
>  
> 
> _@Deadspin_ at least crosbys bf can skate
> 
>  
> 
> _@Deadspin_ but otherwise...lame choice, sid
> 
>  
> 
> _@Deadspin_ and typical

 

_Approximately two hours previously:_

> **joyce_mezzo**
> 
> have you heard the news about Andrew?????
> 
> **JDFinPeru**
> 
> ?
> 
> **joyce_mezzo**
> 
> he's getting married to a pro hockey player!!!
> 
> **joyce_mezzo**
> 
> whos playing in the stanley cup finals
> 
> **joyce_mezzo**
> 
> right now
> 
> **joyce_mezzo**
> 
> Andrew sang the anthem
> 
> **joyce_mezzo**
> 
> and then they kissed!
> 
> **joyce_mezzo**
> 
> just look [link]
> 
> **joyce_mezzo**
> 
> hes so happy!!!!
> 
> **JDFinPeru**
> 
> his voice???
> 
> **joyce_mezzo**
> 
> no damage! [link]
> 
> **JDFinPeru**
> 
> god is good
> 
>  

_Approximately one hour previously:_

> **PENS CLINCH THE CUP!**
> 
> Standish nets a no-look pass from Crosby in the final 30 seconds to bring the Cup to Pittsburgh! (NHL.com)
> 
>  
> 
> _@HawksPowr_ jfc saader is macking on tommy standish!
> 
>  
> 
> _@fitzinpitts_ do they haf 2 do that shit in publix
> 
>  
> 
> _@Deadspin_ guess we know why crosby  & standish are roommates

 

_Approximately thirty minutes previously:_

> (clockwise from top left): Andrew Singleton sings the national anthem prior to the game; Sidney Crosby and Singleton embrace on the ice; Crosby makes his triumphant circuit, holding the Stanley Cup up to Singleton (pictured in Jumbotron) (NYTimes.com)

 

_Approximately thirty seconds previously:_

> [AO3] ItNeverRainsinIllyria posted Chapter One of _After the Game_.

**********

The locker room was pandemonium; everybody was . . . exulting, Sid thought. And would be for some time, if he had anything to say about it. Although they were going to have to start letting other people in soon; Jen and the rest of the PR people had a definite agenda. (Of course. Especially now. Which he didn't want to think about yet.) But Mario had decreed that there would be a Pens-only period first, which was probably just as well, since more than half of the team was making out with one another.

He laughed a little. They weren't, of course, but anybody who didn't know the context would probably think so. And frankly, Sid thought that Tommy could demand a blow job from the entire team and everybody, even the most staunchly heterosexual member of the fourth line, would instantly (well, as soon as they finished chirping him about Saad, anyway) comply. With the notable exception of Sid himself. Who didn't think Andrew would understand. Even if Sid were so inclined. Which he wasn't. With Tommy, at least; Andrew, of course, was another story. And speaking of. . . .

Mario appeared just then. “I'm sorry, Sid; Andrew won't come in. Not until the others do, anyway.”

Sid was disappointed. Not entirely surprised, but disappointed.

“Did he say why?”

Mario's expression was exasperated. “Because he's not a member of the team. At least, not in any way that the general public would understand.” He paused before adding, “He's probably right, you know; if he's singled out, it's going to make the media even more focused on the two of you.”

Sid snorted. “Like it's not going to be anyway. Well, thanks for trying, Mario.”

“Hey, Sid!” Flower called over; “Where's Ace?”

“Outside with the others.”

“Fuck that!” more than half the room shouted out, and instantly, the entire third and fourth line headed for the door; clearly, Sid was not the only person who knew a thing or two about what to expect from Andrew.

Geno and Tommy came over. “You think six guys enough?” Geno asked.

“All they have to do is get him in here,” Sid said; “he won't break any bones in front of cameras.”

“Been there, done that. Right, Sid?”

Everybody in earshot laughed. And then waited.

Not surprisingly, they could hear Andrew before they saw him.

“Put me down, you overgrown delinquents!”

It turned out that six hockey players was indeed enough. Of course, it probably didn't hurt that Andrew was also laughing. Despite that fact, once he was dropped into the middle of the room, he announced, “I am wearing the most expensive suit I have ever owned. I swear to God: if anybody in this room pours anything on it, the only way he'll celebrate this victory is if his family uses the Cup to hold his ashes. Do you all understand me?”

Naturally enough, everybody in the locker room laughed at him. So Andrew, after one final minatory glare, donned his widest grin and said, “Congratulations, guys!” He then started singing: 

> _Vittoria! Vittoria!_

The room erupted.

**********

When things had calmed a bit, Andrew asked, “And to what do I owe the honor of this kidnapping?” Eyeing the team photographer, he added, “Not that I don't appreciate it, guys, but all of your families are waiting outside; it's not exactly fair to single me out.”

A couple of the guys made derisive noises; Geno and Flower rolled their eyes almost in unison.

“Andrew,” Geno said, “I'm thought Sid say he finally explain hockey name to you.”

“He did. But. . . .”

“Never thought you dumb before,” Geno interrupted.

Andrew opened his mouth, but Flower got in first.

“Listen, Ace. I shouldn't have to do this, but I'm going to explain it to you. For the record, as you like to say. You'd be welcome here even if you hadn't . . . uh, come to all the postseason games.”

“You mean, kept Sid from imploding,” Nealer threw in. Everybody laughed—even Sid and Andrew. Although Sid did have to give him the finger, for form's sake.

“But you did come. And you helped Sid with his OCD. And you helped all of us. So unless you want to offend all of us, shut the fuck up about not being worthy. Or we'll take your name away from you.”

“That would involve ruining your suit, Ace,” Tommy warned him. “And Sid already told us he can't afford to keep you in clothes.”

“Sid doesn't want him in clothes at all,” Tanger quipped.

“Nope,” Sid admitted.

Everybody laughed again. And Andrew gave in.

“Okay. You've convinced me; I'll shut up. But for the record: I was happy to tag along. Now tell me: why was it so important you got me in here?”

Everybody else deferred to Sid.

“Mario said we should have a little time to ourselves. And take some pictures. Of us. Just for us.”

Sid could tell that Andrew was touched.

“I think that's a wonderful idea!”

“But first,” Flower said, grinning, “we have a present for you.”

“For me?”

“ _Ouais._ ” He reached down, and tossed a bag to Andrew, who caught it handily. Sid moved a little closer so he could see.

“Do you know what this is, Sidney?”

“I have no idea.”

“Open it, Ace.”

So Andrew did. And drew out . . . a Pens championship sweater. Which he held up. He opened his mouth to say something (“thank you,” probably), when Sid noticed. . . .

“Hey!”

There were a couple of snickers, which Sid ignored, too busy moving so he could get a better look. And then, despite himself, he started laughing. Andrew turned the sweater around and started laughing himself.

The name on the sweater was Singleton, of course. But the number . . . was 87. Squared.

Andrew met Sid's eyes . . . and then stripped off his jacket and donned the sweater.

“Come on, Sidney,” he said, holding out his arms; “give your higher power a hug!”

And to the accompaniment of whistles, catcalls, and applause from the rest of the team, Sid did. While the photographer captured the moment. Not that Sid would ever forget it.

**********

When the photographer was satisfied that he had enough shots, Andrew took his sweater off.

“Time for me to go back and wait with the others,” he told Sid.

Sid was a little disappointed. “Why not just stay here?”

“Because,” Andrew finished putting his jacket back on and started folding his sweater, “as much as I appreciate the inclusion, I did not, in fact, play in this game. And therefore, I don't think I need to be in the media spotlight. Any more than I already am, of course. Or were: it's a vain hope that none of the media hounds saw my being manhandled in here.” He stared at his sweater, and then, shaking his head, he unfolded it and started over. “I can only imagine the ridiculous speculation _that_ little maneuver inspired. Except that I don't have to: probably about a thousand pornographers have anticipated me.”

Sid made a face. “I think that estimate may be a little low.” He cocked his head in thought, and then leaned in a little closer. “I wouldn't mind trying out a few of those . . . scenarios? Is that the right word? Only the two of us, though.”

“Sidney: I am well aware that you are not inclined to share. Fortunately, neither am I.” Even in the cacophony of the room, the fondness in Andrew's tone was clear; Sid thought he would never get enough of hearing that. Andrew studied the sweater again, and then nodded, satisfied. “Would you please put this with your things?”

“Sure.” Sid took it, and then started to laugh; Andrew had folded it so that the number—and the exponent—were clearly visible.

“What is it you like to say, Sasha? God is in the details?”

Andrew nodded, clearly amused.

Sid pulled him in for a hug. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

One last kiss, and then Sid, reluctantly, let him go. “You'd better escape now while you can. And don't think that you have to stay for the rest of all of this; it's going to go on for hours.”

Andrew gave him a quizzical look. “You wouldn't mind if I left?”

“Of course not.”

Andrew patted him on the shoulder. “You're a terrible liar, _mon oie_. But thank you for the offer of reprieve.”

Sid had to laugh. “I'll see you as soon as I can, Sasha.”

**********

The media was insane, of course, and seemed to last forever, but Sid let the euphoria of the win carry him through it. It also didn't hurt that Tommy was getting almost as much attention as Sid was: if Sid had to guess, both for the goal and for the display with Saad. Sid wasn't really able to pay much attention, but Tommy seemed to be weathering it okay. With an unused corner of his mind, he wondered how Jon was handling Saad's revelation. He also wondered if Jon had known—about Saad, if not about Saad and Tommy—and then was struck by the thought: had Andrew known? That seemed to him the sort of thing that shouldn't be kept a secret. It was too delicious, to use Andrew's word.

Sid had just about reached the end of his forbearance when Andrew himself appeared at his side.

“I'm very sorry to interrupt,” he said, and his voice even sounded sincere—if a little husky (it was going to take Sid a while to get used to hearing it again), “but I wonder if we might wrap things up?”

There were protests, of course, and a barrage of questions hurled at both Andrew and Sid, but even though they had to answer some of them, Andrew still managed to extricate them a lot quicker than Sid thought possible.

As they walked away, Andrew said softly, “Sorry to intervene, but you looked as if you had just about had it.”

Equally softly, Sid said, “Sasha. Please don't apologize. After all: I promised months ago to introduce you.” Sid actually thought he worked that reminder in very subtlety, but that was enough for now. Moving on, he quirked a grin; “Plus, I always enjoy seeing genetics at work.”

That earned him an inquisitive eyebrow. “And that comment means precisely what?”

“It means that even though you look more like your father, when you do things like this, it's totally obvious who your mother is.”

Andrew burst out laughing. “ _Merci du compliment_ , _mon oie_. But be honest: I'm not nearly as adroit at it as Mom is.”

“Maybe not yet. But you will be.” He bumped shoulders with Andrew, and then said, “I have to say, I'm surprised Jen let it go on as long as it did.”

“She's a little occupied right now.”

There was something in his tone. . . . “What's going on?”

Andrew shrugged. “The paparazzi seem to be even more unruly than usual. She's trying to rein them in, I think. But there's only one of her, and multitudes of them.” He took a quick glance over his shoulder. “Poor Tommy: it certainly looked like they were putting him through the wringer.”

Probably no one could hear them, but Sid lowered his voice anyway. “Did you know? About Saad, I mean? Or about him and Tommy?”

Andrew hesitated. “Well . . . yes. To be precise: I found out about the latter, which made the former rather . . . oh, academic.”

“Why didn't you say anything? And how did you find out?”

“Because Tommy obviously didn't want anyone to know. And because I'm a very light sleeper. And also because I have years of experience at recognizing voices.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that Brandon spent the night with Tommy when the Hawks played the Pens during the regular season. And even though I'm fairly certain they were trying to be quiet, I heard them.” He snorted a little. “Now that the cat's out of the bag, I am going to give Tommy _such_ a hard time for his hypocrisy.”

It took Sid a few seconds. Laughing a little, he told Andrew, “Don't be too hard on him, Sasha; after all, not everybody can be as loud as we are. Well, were. And will be again. Soon, I hope.” He then poked Andrew's chest. “But next time: make sure you wake me up.”

“Next time, I plan on selling tickets. To certain members of the team. Let them have a new—and more appropriate—target for their comments about stamina.” He paused. “Although: based on what I heard, that target should probably include only Brandon.”

“Definitely wake me up next time.”

**********

Sid drank up the fervent congratulations from his family; his father squeezed him tightly for a long, long time, before saying in his ear, “I'm so proud of you, Sid. So fucking proud.”

Sid had to clear his throat before he could say thanks. He then hugged his mom, who had tears in her eyes, before moving on to Taylor. Who didn't say anything except his name (well, Squid), which she repeated over and over again.

When she finally let go of him, Sid turned and held his arms out to Daniel. Who kissed him on the cheek and told him how proud he was, before handing him over to Elisabeth. And after thanking her for her congratulations, he gave her another hug and said softly, “Winning the Cup is only one of the things that made today so . . . special. You two raised an incredible son; I already knew he got his heart from you guys, but I kind of wonder how he has room for all of his courage, too.”

Elisabeth stood on her toes and kissed each of his cheeks and then his forehead; tears sparkled on her eyelashes.

“Oh my dear,” she said softly, “I wish we could take credit for all of it. But your heart—not to mention your own courage—is a thing of beauty. And inspiration. And not solely, I suspect, for Sasha.”

Sid pulled her to his chest again. When they finally separated, she reached up and patted his cheek. And then, with an impish grin, said, “And speaking of courage: you're going to need every last drop of it that you possess.”

“How come?”

“Because now that the playoffs have ended, Daniel will stop restraining himself. Well: allow me to rephrase. He will stop allowing himself to be restrained. So be prepared, my dear: it will be all wedding, all the time.”

Sid groaned. And then he grinned back at her. “According to Jen, it's going to be all media, all the time. Maybe I'll let the two of them fight it out.”

She laughed. “That might well work.” She paused before adding, “Perhaps I'll have a word or two with Jen; I have a little . . . experience . . . she might find useful.”

This time, they both laughed.

**********

Turning away from Elisabeth, Sid looked around for Andrew—to find him talking very enthusiastically to a couple Sid didn't recognize. From the back, anyway. Curious, Sid headed in his direction, which took a while, as he had to stop and accept congratulations every few steps. He finally arrived, and realized, as soon as he got a good look, who these people must be.

“Sidney: these are. . . .”

“Tommy's parents,” Sid interrupted. “They couldn't be anybody else.”

Andrew laughed. “That's exactly what I said!”

Grinning widely, Sid said how happy he was to meet them. They seemed a little shell-shocked, but responded in kind.

“It's hard to believe,” Mr. Standish said, shaking his head. “I mean, when he told us you were letting him board with you, that was a big surprise. And then, when you asked him to keep doing it, well . . .” he paused and looked at his wife, his mouth quirking a little, “I guess we figured we did a good job raising him, eh?”

Mrs. Standish laughed. “Maybe so. Pity it took us 'til number six to get it right!”

“Well, I kind of doubt it took that long,” Sid said, laughing himself, “but Tommy is a real credit to both of you. And you both must be so proud of him; it's great that you were able to make today!”

“We didn't think we could, to be honest,” Mr. Standish said. “Tommy offered to fly us out for any of the final games, but we told him to save his money. It's enough that he pays for that satellite service, so we can see all his games on the TV.”

“But when we got the call from that . . . what was her name? It began with a J, I think; I swear I can't think straight right now . . . telling us that they wanted everybody's family at game seven, well, we just had to come! It's been so exciting! I've never been on a plane that big before! And then the game itself!” She fanned herself. “I can't believe it! Our son! On the ice with you and Geno Malkin! Making the game-winner!” She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve. “I'm sorry! But it's like a dream come true!”

Mr. Standish patted her arm. “Where is Tommy, anyhow?”

“Still doing media, I guess,” Sid said, trying to mask his grimace. He nudged Andrew. “Maybe you could go rescue him too.”

“I'd be willing to try, but I doubt I'd succeed. After all, didn't you teach me that the same play almost never works twice in a row?”

“I guess I did,” Sid said, smiling as he remembered. “Well, they can't keep him forever.”

“It's part of the job,” Mr. Standish said, nodding his head. “And . . . you must be relieved that it isn't you for once.”

“For sure,” Sid agreed.

“Congratulations to you both, by the way,” Mrs. Standish said. “I imagine it's been real hard. I can't believe some of the things they've been writing about you . . . you don't mind if I call you Sid, do you?”

“I'd mind it a lot more if you called me anything else,” Sid said honestly.

“And please call me Andrew.”

“Not Sasha?” Mrs. Standish asked innocently . . . well, sort of. Genetics at work again; Sid smirked a little.

“Please, no.” Andrew's face was pained.

She laughed. “Tommy's told us a little—not much, but some. I hope you're feeling better.”

“I am, thank you. Now that I can speak above a whisper.”

“You certainly sounded wonderful before the game.”

Andrew dropped his eyes a little, smiling with that air of almost embarrassment Sid continued to find . . . endearing. “Thanks very much.”

“We watched your concert,” Mr. Standish said, a little abruptly. “The one from Las Vegas. Tommy told us we'd like it. And we did.”

Mrs. Standish agreed. And then she looked around, leaned in a little closer, and said, “I have to tell you: when you came out, Sid? Allen here said to me, “I bet you anything Sasha is that singer.”

Both Sid and Andrew stared at them in shock.

“Really?”

She nodded, smiling proudly.

“May I ask why? Or, how, I suppose? What made you think that?” Sid was very curious too.

Tommy's father fidgeted a little. “Well. I don't exactly know.”

His wife nudged him. “Tell him, Allen.”

He gave her a look: a mixture of fondness and exasperation that Sid recognized instantly. Although Tommy's version of it had those two things in different proportions. Then he said, “Well, my ma: she was a singer. Nothing like you, a course: church, mostly. Weddings and such. But she was trained, like. Took it serious, her whole life. Every day she did her exercises. And at home . . . she'd sing other stuff. Besides hymns, I mean. To us kids and my pop. He dearly loved it when she'd sing. And you couldn't help but notice . . . well, when she sang to us, it sounded different like. And my big sister, she asked Ma why once. And Ma thought about it, and then she said she reckoned it was because at home, she sang with her heart too.” He shrugged then, a little embarrassed. “I guess you could say I think you do the same thing. Or did, anyhow, when you sang that piece to Sid.”

Since Andrew didn't seem to have any words, Sid spoke up. “He does. And . . . now I know where Tommy gets his smarts from.”

Tommy's father flushed, and his wife laughed. “The fruit doesn't fall too far from the tree, I guess,” she said.

“It really doesn't,” Andrew said, seemingly recovered. “And speaking of: if you're interested, I'd love to introduce you to my parents.”

He led them over, and they all chatted for a while. Until Tommy finally appeared.

“Ma? Dad?”

An instant later, he was hugging both of them. And Sid couldn't help but notice that although his father seemed a little surprised, he also seemed pleased. He also noticed the indulgent smile on Elisabeth's face—and on Daniel's too; he knew they both liked Tommy a lot.

Everybody got a surprise though, when, after the babble of congratulations subsided, Tommy's mother hauled back and slapped him upside the head.

“Hey! What's that for? What'd I do?”

“Thomas Burton Standish, is Brandon Saad your boyfriend?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “How long have you two been seeing each other? Is it serious? It has to be, for him to kiss you like that. In front of cameras, too! Why didn't you tell us? Do you think we appreciate finding out at the same time as the rest of the world? Aren't we your parents? Don't we deserve to know first?” She went on in this vein for a while. And Tommy just stood there and took it. Not exactly meekly, but with an air of resignation that was pretty funny.

Tommy's father just shook his head. And said to Sid, who was next to him, “Sometimes, you just have to let her get it out.”

**********

When they finally got home, Sid and Andrew had to help Tommy out of the car and into the house. Sid thought he'd seen Tommy drunk before—at the party in Boston—but that was nothing compared to his state now. Andrew shouldered most of the burden while Sid fumbled for his keys, and calling out another thank you to Henry (who had congratulated Sid with a proudly proprietary air that made Sid feel as if his family was now even larger than he'd thought), they hoisted Tommy over the threshold.

“Where should we put him?”

“Upstairs,” Sid decided, “but . . . I can't face the stairs just yet.” Sid was feeling no pain himself, and Andrew had matched him, drink for drink.

“Media room?”

“Fuck, no. If he pukes on my couches, I'll murder him. Kitchen, I guess; even if he falls off the stool, he's too drunk to break anything.”

Even Andrew was panting slightly by the time they'd parked Tommy at the island. “Good God,” he said, a trifle blearily, “I haven't been this drunk since I was fifteen. And having said that: I'm having one more. Join me?”

“Why not?” But before Andrew could head for the glasses, Sid pulled him into his arms. And stood there, relishing the contact. The closeness. The sense of belonging. Finally letting him go, Sid sank down onto his stool and smiled as Andrew patted his cheek before moving away.

“”Are you alive in there?” Sid asked, poking Tommy in the chest.

Tommy opened one eye. “No.” He then slumped on his own stool and seemed to fall asleep. Or pass out. Not that there was a material difference between the two states.

Andrew put the drinks down, but went over to the fridge and looked inside. After nodding in satisfaction, he came back and plopped down next to Sid.

“Mom and Dad told me they laid in supplies.”

“Eggs and bacon?”

Andrew nodded. “Svetlana was usually right about most things, but especially about this.” He laughed. “She also had a hollow leg. I think she could drink more than any three members of the team, and still walk a straight line.” He held up his glass. “To your victory, Captain Crosby.”

“To _our_ victory. Or victories, I guess.”

They clinked and drank. Sid closed his eyes for a minute, reveling in his sense of contentment. He opened them again when he heard Andrew clear his throat.

“How are you doing?” Sid asked, gesturing.

Making a face, Andrew said, “All right, I suppose.” After a moment, he added, “It's hard to say. I definitely overdid it today. But I don't care.” He couldn't have sounded more definite. “Still: I should take it easy. I'll probably head up to Boston soon and have them take a look. And be scolded.” He rolled his eyes. “You know, if I could go back in time and change anything in the world, right now I think I'd go back to the War of 1812 and force Francis Scott Key to pick a different tune. 'To Anacreon in Heaven'—the song Key put new words to—is rather difficult at the best of times; it's certainly not a good therapeutic choice for one's reintroduction to singing after four months.” He shrugged. And then grinned. “But there are, after all, traditions to observe.”

Sid held up his glass. “Amen.”

After taking another swallow, Andrew said, “Were you surprised? Truly surprised, I mean. Did you have any idea?”

“None. And I mean that. It never even occurred to me. And . . . if I'm being honest, I have to say that I'm kind of glad it didn't. Because if it had, then I maybe would have . . . hoped. Maybe too much.” He made a face. “Or maybe even more than hoped. I suppose I'm going to have to come clean with Tolliver.”

Andrew winced. “Do you have to? I get the feeling she'll come after me more than you.”

“I kind of doubt that. But don't worry, Sasha: it won't be for a while. To quote from a movie that scared the shit out of me when I was little, 'these things must be done delicately.'”

Andrew got the reference almost immediately; he laughed, and then said in the Wicked Witch's voice, “'Poppies will put her to sleep.'” Then, jerking his thumb at Tommy, he added in his own voice, “Him, in this case. And I doubt he needs any soporifics.”

“Probably not.” Sid drained his glass and then, reluctantly, pushed himself up off his stool. “We'd better get him upstairs while I can still move.”

“All right.” But Andrew frowned down at Tommy, whose mouth was now hanging open. Unattractively. “Do you think he's going to throw up?”

“Probably.”

Andrew hesitated. And Sid groaned.

“No.”

“Sidney.”

“Sasha. No!”

“Sidney, we can't let him choke on his own vomit.”

“Why not?”

“Sidney!”

Sid groaned again. And gave in.

“All right, all right. But he's your responsibility. And if he pukes in bed, you're buying me a new mattress.”

**********

After they staggered into Sid's room, Andrew said, “We need to rouse him long enough for him to pee.”

“Good luck with that.”

“I agreed to take care of any vomitus, Sidney; I said nothing at all about other bodily excretions. Come on: let's get him in there.”

Sid's bathroom was a good size, but not really big enough for two hockey players and Andrew, especially in the small area in front of the toilet.

“I'll hold him up and you try to wake him,” Andrew ordered.

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don't know, Sidney. Shake him. Slap him. Tickle him. But do something.”

“Slapping him sounds like fun.” But since poking had gotten results before, Sid decided to try that again. And it did seem to work. A little. At least, Tommy opened his eyes. A little.

“Wha?”

“You have to pee.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” Sid said testily. “Andrew: shut up. If you keep shaking him like that, he'll start barfing.”

“I'mma not dog.”

“Oh for fuck's sake! I didn't say 'barking,' I said . . . oh, never mind. Tommy: take your dick out and piss. In the toilet. Now.”

And Tommy's hands went down to his waist.

“He responds well to orders, doesn't he?” Andrew commented. “That's quite an attractive quality.”

“Too bad neither one of us is any good at it.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that, Sidney.” Andrew's tone was . . . wicked. “Even leaving our jobs aside, we both are quite willing to follow directions. When orgasms—or the promise of them, at least—are in the picture, anyway.”

Sid flashed a grin at his fiancé. And then scowled. “What's the hold up?”

Andrew leaned around. “He seems to have forgotten how to work a zipper. Would you like some help, Tommy?”

Tommy nodded.

“All right. There. Now: please proceed, Tommy. Tommy?”

“He's out again,” Sid sighed. “Sasha, this is ridiculous. How about we get a blanket and he can sleep in the tub?”

“He can still choke in the tub. And I am not sleeping in the bathroom.” Andrew shook Tommy. “Tommy. Wake up. Sidney: help him.”

“I am _not_ taking his dick out for him.”

Tommy swayed. “I can.” He fumbled.

“Oh fucking Christ!”

“What is it now?” Andrew leaned around again. “Oh. Oh my. Houston, we appear to have a problem.” Despite himself, Sid started to laugh.

Andrew went on, “Talk about the rocket's red glare.”

Sid upgraded his laugh to a honk. When he wound down, Andrew opened his mouth again, but Sid interrupted him.

“Sasha: if you say even one word about bombs, or, or about _anything_ bursting in air, the wedding's off.”

“I could always sing it. But fine. Now what do we do?”

“ _We_ are not going to do anything. And for sure nothing about _that_.”

“I wasn't suggesting we do something salacious, Sidney. That would rather defeat the purpose of this entire endeavor; he'd have to come before he could pee, and with as much as he's had to drink, that could take forever.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Sid said, and his voice held real pain. “Sasha, he's _leaking_!”

“Really?” Andrew took a look. “Ah. Well. I believe this calls for extreme action: desperate times and all that. A moment please.” He cleared his throat. And then, in Tommy's mother's voice, he said loudly, “Thomas Burton Standish! Wake up!”

Tommy jerked to attention. “Wha?”

“That's incredible,” Sid said, awed. “It's gone! It's like . . . magic!”

“I do have my small talents. Tommy: you need to pee. Right now. Please do so.”

“How'd you know. . . ?” Tommy's voice trailed off as he started filling the bowl.

“Good God,” Andrew said after a while, “how long has it been? I could have learned to knit in the time this is taking.”

**********

“You are going to wear something to bed, aren't you?” Sid asked, once they'd deposited Tommy on the left side.

Andrew made a face. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Sid was expecting a relatively major eye roll; what he got was one of Andrew's fond smiles.

“Very well, _mon oie_ ; if you insist, I'll wear some underwear.”

“One of these days, I'll talk you into flannel pajamas.”

“I wouldn't count on it.”

“Oh, I don't know; I can be . . . persuasive.” Sid leered.

“This is true,” Andrew chuckled as he walked towards the bureau. “I'll have to give it some thought. I wonder what would be a suitable reward for my smothering myself all night?”

“Me?” Sid stumbled a little as he dropped his pants.

“Well, yes. Of course. But doing what, I wonder. It would have to be something special. Something . . . worthy. We'd have to build in a fair amount of anticipation, I suspect, to heighten the experience. We'll have to plan something.”

“Have I mentioned lately that I really like it when you have plans?”

“Not since the end of the third round, I believe,” Andrew said after giving it some thought. “I must be falling down on the job.”

“Never. Now please get your ass into bed. Pierre.”

Andrew laughed, and complied; Sid climbed in after him, and Andrew immediately wrapped his arms around him.

“It's a good thing you have such a large bed.”

Sid snorted as he wriggled around, striving for maximum contact. “He'd better stay in his part of it. Or else I'll have him traded to Edmonton. Or Winnipeg.”

“Well, he'd be closer to his family, I suppose. I like his parents. Do you?”

“I do. A lot. And I understand Tommy a lot better now that I've met them.”

“I can't believe that story. How Mr. Standish figured out about us, I mean. It's truly remarkable.”

“It is,” Sid agreed, snuggling. “To sort of quote your mom, he has 'such insights.'”

Andrew laughed. And then yawned. “I'm sorry, _mon oie_ ; I had hoped to celebrate your win with a special lullaby. But given the circumstances. . . .”

“That's okay, Andrew; I'll take a rain check. Believe me, even though he's unconscious, I'd rather it just be the two of us.”

“Well, it will be. For the rest of our lives.” Andrew shivered. “Doesn't that sound like fun?”

“For sure.” They kissed, and then Andrew sighed, “Sleep well, Sidney.”

“You too.” He closed his eyes, and then opened them again. “Before I forget: there's something I've been meaning to ask you.”

“Ummm?”

“What's the name of your mom's admin?”

“Julia.”

“That's right.” He yawned. “I knew it began with a J.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everybody for the wonderful reception they gave the first chapter! I hope you all continue to enjoy the story!
> 
> A word about pacing. This fic differs from AFTR in that the time span is much shorter: roughly, two months from start to finish (as opposed to nearly two years). Much of the action is centered around a few events, and I toyed with the idea of having one chapter for each of them; I gave up on that plan when I realized that in all likelihood, a single chapter might make up 25% or more of the entire fic. So: because the next four chapters detail (and I choose that word advisedly!) the day after game seven, I'm going to post them all today. It's certainly not necessary to read them all in one sitting, of course, but at least now people will have the option. (Plus: I agree with all of the people who commented during the posting of AFTR that it's nice to get a big piece of the whole thing at the beginning.) 
> 
> One last thing: I promise I've done my best to keep things interesting!

Sid was dreaming. Of Andrew, sitting at his piano. Giving him a private concert. Well, it wasn't entirely private: the Cup was there too. Sid didn't mind sharing with the Cup. But the concert ended abruptly.

“Rise and shine, boys!”

Sid cracked open his eyes. Well, one of his eyes.

“Daniel?”

“Good morning, Sidney! It's time to get up; we have a lot to do!”

Sid closed his eye. And jabbed his elbow into his fiancé's side.

Andrew groaned. And batted Sid's arm away.

“Andrew.”

“What!”

“Deal with your dad.”

“What?” Sid felt movement. Then: “Dad. Go away. Now.”

“Absolutely not, Sasha. I've been more than accommodating. I waited until Sidney won the Cup, didn't I? But it takes time to plan a wedding properly, and I can't do it all by myself. Well, I could, but your mother forbade me. And she told Simon not to help me. And he agreed, the traitor. So: I'm going to go finish breakfast preparations; I'll expect you both downstairs in ten minutes. Tommy may sleep a little longer; I don't think we need him just yet.”

There was more movement next to him; Sid opened his eye again and saw Andrew reach behind his head, grasp one of his pillows, and hurl it at his father.

“You have terrible aim, Sasha; don't you remember anything about geometry? You used to be rather good at it. Anyway: I'm starting the clock right now. Ten minutes, boys! You won't like it if you're late; I'll send Troy up, and I don't think he'd understand. Or appreciate this vision of male pulchritude at rest the way I do.” Daniel paused, and then added: “And just so you know how serious I am: I took a picture of the three of you. I won't hesitate to use it. You now have nine minutes and thirty seconds.” And with that, he left the room.

There was a brief silence, and then Andrew said to the air, “I am trying to decide what would give me greater satisfaction: murder or suicide.” His voice was more than a little raspy.

“Do you think he's serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Andrew groaned. “Oh, fuck a duck.” He threw back the covers.

“Hey!”

“Get a move on, Sidney.” Andrew shoved him. “Dad doesn't make idle threats. And even with your new, Tolliver-inspired schedule, you still take forever in the bathroom.”

Reluctantly, Sid swung his legs over the side of the bed, and, somewhat shakily, stood up. “Why is this my life?”

“Just wait until you've known him as long as I have.”

**********

Sid missed his deadline, but only by a little. And as it turned out, it didn't really matter.

“Tommy's parents are on their way over,” Elisabeth announced when Sid trotted into the kitchen, “so we'll need to postpone any lengthy discussions until later. Daniel, do stop sulking.”

“I'm not.”

Andrew snorted.

His father glared at him. “And of course I don't want to be rude. But we have a lot of things to decide!”

“Like what?” Sid asked to be polite, accepting a cup of tea from Andrew.

Daniel looked at him gratefully. “Well, the most important decision, and the one upon which all others need to wait, is where the wedding will be. Canada or the U.S.? To be more specific: Nova Scotia or Massachusetts? Or Pennsylvania, I suppose.”

“Well, certainly not Philly,” Sid said. “Even though that's where we met.”

Andrew favored him with a smile. Which turned into one of his evil grins when he said, “I'm sure Claude Giroux would be happy to throw you a bachelor party.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “I think the entire city of Philadelphia would be happy to throw me into the Delaware. So, no. And . . . I don't think I want it here. Do you, Andrew?”

Andrew shook his head.

“Excellent!” Daniel said, rubbing his hands together; “we're making progress! So: Nova Scotia or Massachusetts?”

Sid exchanged glances with Andrew, who said, “I don't know that I have a strong preference. Except to say that we should do _something_ in each place.”

“Probably,” Sid agreed. He turned to his parents; Taylor must still be asleep. “What do you guys think?”

His father shrugged. “No matter which place you pick, it's going to piss people off. Although: you might be able to fly under the radar a little easier down here.” He grinned, suddenly. “I imagine your Cup day is going to be even more popular this time around; it's hard to imagine what your wedding would bring out of the woodwork.”

“Ugh.”

Andrew patted his shoulder.

“As long as you do have a big party or something at home,” Sid's mother said, “I think you should have the wedding itself in Massachusetts. From what Daniel tells me, Andrew's got a much bigger family than we do.”

“That makes sense,” Sid decided.

“How many people do you think will fly down from Nova Scotia?” Elisabeth asked. “Roughly. Thirty? Fifty? More than a hundred?”

Sid spread his hands helplessly. “I have no idea. If absolutely everybody in the family comes? Maybe around thirty. Forty at the most. Right, Mom?” She nodded. “And friends from home: well, I don't think all of them would make the trip. So, less than a hundred, for sure. Probably a lot less.”

“Well, that's certainly manageable. We'll simply charter a plane.”

“In the interests of efficiency,” Andrew agreed, with a whisker of a grin; the coffee had obviously begun working. “When is this little shindig going to take place?”

“That was my next question,” Daniel said approvingly. “Sidney, when will your Cup day be?”

“Last time, I had it on my birthday.”

“Perfect. We'll have your Cup day be part of the festivities, and have the wedding itself the next weekend. Then, unless I'm mistaken, you and Sasha already have plans to cruise the Mediterranean. Two—or is it three?—weeks honeymoon, and back in time for training camp.”

By this point, Sid's parents were looking somewhat shell-shocked. Sid's mother shook herself a little. “Daniel, do you really think you can arrange a wedding like this in two months?”

“Of course. I've already done a lot of the preliminary work. I outlined scenarios for all of the most likely venues in each location; I'll show you the short list after breakfast. When are the Standishs getting here, Lis?”

Elisabeth glanced at her watch. “Samuel was supposed to pick them up fifteen minutes ago. So, not long, I imagine.”

Andrew pushed himself away from the island. “I'd better go start rousing Tommy, then. Should you wake Taylor, Sidney, or let her sleep?”

Sid stood up. “I'll go get her. She should experience Hurricane Daniel too.”

Daniel beamed at him. “Such a nice boy,” he remarked to Sid's parents. Who started laughing.

**********

After waking up Taylor, Sid went into his room, where he found Andrew looking at his phone.

“Where's Tommy?”

“In the shower, I imagine. He staggered off to his room—under his own power, too; I was impressed.”

Sid peered over the bed. “Did he puke?”

“Not overnight. He may be making up for that right now, though; to be honest, I thought he was going to when I woke him up and he realized where he was.” He chuckled wickedly. “We'll be able to tease him forever about that.”

“Good. Hey: what are the chances you can delete that picture from your dad's phone?”

A sigh. “Slim to none. And even if I could, I doubt it would do any good; if I know Dad, he's already sent it—multiple times, if I had to guess—to the secure server at SCE. And I don't have access to that. Well, I do, but not to his files. But don't worry, Sidney: Dad wouldn't share it outside of the family.”

“That'd be bad enough.” Sid sat down. “What are you doing?

“Checking my e-mail. And my texts. I took the precaution of shutting my phone off last night. I expected the news to spread, but not this fast; I don't think I've ever had this many new messages. I'll deal with it later . . . oh, here's one from Bradley. Excuse me a moment.” He stood up and went into the bathroom.

Sid yawned, and leaned back against the headboard. After a couple of minutes, Tommy appeared, his hair still wet. His face was almost bloodless, but he looked better than Sid would have thought possible.

“You're alive?” he asked.

“I guess.” He fidgeted.

Sid wondered what level of torture would be appropriate. He had just about decided to start small and work his way up when the bathroom door opened and Andrew came back in. With his eyes narrowed. And his lips compressed.

“Is something wrong, Sasha?”

It took Andrew a few seconds to respond. “I don't know yet. And I do not wish to discuss it right now.”

Sid had seldom heard that tone in his voice. Still. . . .

“Can I ask one question: a yes or no one?”

Andrew looked at him, his expression wry. “You may.”

“Is it about your singing?”

Andrew's face cleared. A little, anyway. “No. Definitely not. It's nothing about me, actually. Just something about a friend. And it may only be a miscommunication. Time will tell.” He turned his attention to Tommy. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I just did suicides for a week.”

“Ah. Well, I don't have a context for that. Fortunately.”

The doorbell rang, and Andrew said, “I suspect that's your parents, Tommy. Let's go.”

“Do I have to?”

Both Sid and Andrew laughed.

**********

By the time they got downstairs, Tommy's parents were inside, and Daniel was urging them to come into the kitchen. Tommy ended up leading the way, and Sid and Andrew brought up the rear. It was all cheerful chatter, which Sid found a little hard to take; from the expression on Tommy's face, he wanted to mainline a bottle of aspirin. Repressing a grin, Sid went over and got the bottle out of the cupboard.

“You need food too,” Sid told him, handing it over. “Andrew's grandmother has the cure.”

“Good thing,” Tommy muttered.

Just then, the doorbell rang again.

“I'll get it,” Taylor yelled from the hall. There was the sound of voices, and a few seconds later, she came in, followed by Brandon Saad.

Tommy stiffened. And Andrew went into action.

“Brandon! Just the person I was hoping to see! There's something you absolutely have to hear!” He strode across the room, and, quite forcibly, yanked Saad out of the kitchen.

“We're going up to my studio for a bit,” he called over his shoulder.

Sid and Tommy exchanged glances. Then they moved, almost in step, towards the door. And heard Andrew say, in a positively vicious tone, “We can do this one of two ways, Brandon. You can walk, or I will break your leg and drag you up there.”

Evidently, Saad chose to walk.

Sid looked at Tommy. Tommy looked at Sid. Then they both shrugged, and turned back into the kitchen. The absolutely silent kitchen; even Taylor was quiet.

Sid cleared his throat. And said to the room at large, “Andrew soundproofed one of the rooms upstairs for his studio.” He then turned to Tommy.

“You know a lot about movies. Which one has the tag line, 'In space, no one can hear you scream?'”

**********

Sid wasn't really surprised that it was Tommy's mother who addressed the elephant in the room.

“Tommy, do you know what that was all about?”

At first, Sid didn't think he was going to answer her. But then he grimaced, and said, “I got an idea. And no, I don't want to talk about it.”

“Tommy. . . .”

“Ma. Please. Can we just . . . not talk about it right now?”

“But. . . .”

“Louise.” It was Tommy's father. He didn't speak loudly—in fact, Sid thought his voice was a little quieter than it had been—but he did speak with authority. “Let it go for now. Until Tommy decides if there's anything to talk about.”

After a few seconds of silent communication with her husband, she nodded. And Elisabeth stepped forward. “An excellent idea, Allen. Now then: Daniel would be more than happy to start making people breakfast.”

“Of course,” Daniel agreed. “My mother-in-law always specified eggs with cheese after a night of heavy drinking—plus bacon and home fries, of course—which means scrambled or omelets, but there's no need for any of you to limit yourself to those choices; I can certainly make eggs any style to order. Unless,” and he turned to Tommy, “you think we should wait until we find out if we'll be ten or eleven.”

Tommy barked out a laugh. “It could be nine, Daniel: if Andrew turns himself in for murder.”

“I wouldn't worry about that, Tommy,” Elisabeth said composedly. “Naturally, we would insist that Sasha have breakfast first.”

Not surprisingly, that comment did a lot to dissipate any residual tension. Also not surprising was the fact that Sid was the first to start laughing. What was kind of surprising was that Tommy's mother was the next to join in.

“How many other children do you have?” she asked Elisabeth. “I have six sons, and even I can't manage that level of calm.”

Elisabeth gave her a genuine smile. “I wouldn't be so sure of that, Louise. And Andrew is our only child.” Her smile then turned into a grin. “But I'm half-Russian. That helps quite a bit.”

**********

There was a general sense that breakfast should wait until Andrew returned, so Elisabeth took charge of making drinks. And convinced everybody to have at least one. Zen Gardens turned out to be very popular; even Tommy had one. Which he downed rather quickly. And had another. Which he nursed.

Conversation started to become more natural now that alcohol was involved. There was one kind of awkward moment when Taylor sidled up to Sid and whispered, “No wonder Burakovsky apologized.” Sid grinned at her, and everything would have been fine except that their father had overheard. And stood stock-still. Sid hoped that he wouldn't make a scene . . . and was relieved (not to mention, shocked) when his father started grinning a little. Then he shook his head, slapped Sid on the shoulder, and whispered, “Good luck.”

Sometimes, Sid reflected, change could be a good thing. Even if it took a little getting used to.

He managed to get Tommy alone long enough to say, “I am absolutely, positively, not trying to butt in. Or to pry. But if you want to know what set Andrew off, then go look at his phone: he probably left it up in our room. He was reading his e-mail, and I'll bet that's what got him . . . uh, primed.”

But Tommy shook his head. “Thanks, Sid. But . . . I'm pretty sure I know. And believe me: I can wait to find out if I'm wrong.” He hesitated, and then yanked Sid in for a fierce hug. He had opened his mouth to say something else when Andrew reentered the kitchen.

Naturally enough, every eye was on him as he crossed the room.

“Tommy, I left our visitor up in my studio. He would like to talk with you. Only if you want to, of course.”

Tommy studied Andrew's face—and then grinned. “Do I want to?”

Andrew grinned back. “If I were you, I would. But it's entirely your decision.”

“Can I have a hint?”

This time, Andrew laughed. “You've been hanging around Sidney too long. No, Tommy. No hint. Although . . . all right, I will say this: I truly believe that he was honest with me. And he is still . . . well, let's say unharmed. Physically.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows. Andrew met his gaze blandly. Then, obviously coming to a decision, Tommy nodded; “I guess you don't need to say anything else.” He threw his arms around Andrew and hugged him as fervently as he had Sid. And said simply, but sincerely, “Thanks, Andrew.”

“You don't have to thank me. At all. Now why don't you go upstairs and have a little chat. And let me remind you of something. No, of two things. First: there are times when groveling is good for the soul. And second: I spent an absolute fortune having that room soundproofed; it was worth every penny.”

Laughing, Tommy hugged him again briefly, and then started to leave the room.

“Tommy,” Daniel called out. “Will we be ten or eleven?”

Stopping in mid-step, Tommy gave this question some thought. Then he smiled—in a way that Sid had seldom seen on his face. And answered, “Eleven. I hope.”

**********

The questions started almost immediately, but Andrew ignored them. Instead, he held up his hand, and said, looking first at Sid's parents and then at Tommy's, “I would like to apologize for my behavior.” He took a deep breath, and then went on, “I have a very bad temper. And at times, I find it difficult to control myself. But Tommy is a very dear friend, and I . . . found it necessary to intervene on his behalf. I hope you all will forgive my display.”

There was silence for a couple of seconds, and then Tommy's mother walked over to Andrew. Wearing an expression that Sid had seen on Tommy's face dozens of times—most recently, about two minutes earlier—she searched his face. She nodded once, and said, “Don't be an idiot.” Then she slapped him upside the head.

Everybody else in the room started laughing, Andrew's parents loudest of all. Well, except for Sid's honking. And after a couple of seconds, Andrew joined in.

“I need a drink,” he announced. “And food. Why aren't you cooking?” he asked his father as he walked over to the fridge.

“We've all been waiting for the next act to begin,” Daniel retorted. “Do we get to know what that was all about?”

“All in good time.” Andrew pulled a bottle of vodka out of the freezer, unscrewed the cap, and took a couple of healthy swallows. He closed his eyes briefly, then announced, “I may live after all.”

Putting the bottle back, he said, “It's really Tommy's story to tell. But . . . what set me off was a clip from last night's media coverage. From the very beginning of the media onslaught, in fact. Tommy had just appeared before the reporters, and he looked absolutely euphoric. As well he should; the Pens had just won, and he played a very important part in that victory. And then . . . the first question he was asked was about Brandon's kissing him. 'What was that kiss all about? Did you know he was going to do that?'”

Andrew made a face. “And I suppose Tommy wasn't adequately prepared. Because he said, 'I had no idea.' And just for an instant . . . he looked . . . well, hurt. Or lost, perhaps.” Andrew sighed. “He recovered almost instantly. And outwardly, he was fine. But . . . you know,” he said, his voice changing, “I'm actually ashamed of myself. I should have realized this last night: that the focus of the media was much more on Tommy's being gay rather than on Tommy's achievement on the ice. I mean, it is true I was rather deluged by the media myself, and their focus was almost entirely on Sidney and me—and then we were too busy celebrating to even think about such things; still: it should have occurred to me.”

Sid walked over to Andrew and bumped shoulders with him. Not at all gently. “Don't be so hard on yourself. I'm probably more guilty than you are; I actually heard the press at work. But . . . I guess it didn't sink in. 'Cause, Andrew: the first question I got asked last night was about you. And practically every question I've been asked since I came out is addressed to gay Sidney Crosby. If I make a goal, is it because I feel good about coming out? If I miss a shot, is it because the pressure is too much for me and I should never have come out? I don't think I told you this, but a reporter actually asked me, 'How does it feel to be gay first and a hockey player second?'” He shook his head. “Of course, he asked me this after the camera was off. But I think it was a genuine question. It was . . . insightful, for sure. Anyway, my point is: for better or for worse, that's the way things are. Maybe things will change. Now that it's more than just me, things might. We'll see.” He shrugged. “But . . . I'm confused. Why did that clip make you so mad?”

“Because Tommy didn't know Brandon was going to do what he did. Sidney, Brandon essentially outed him! And himself, of course. But that changes nothing, and I don't think any of us understood this last night. He blindsided Tommy. So, not only did he alter the focus of all of the attention—and, not incidentally, rob Tommy of some of the joy of the experience, or at least, so I suspect—he also did it without Tommy's consent!”

He threw up his hands and started to pace. “You know how I feel about coming out. It's an extremely personal decision, and no one else should have any say in it. Ever. For any reason whatsoever. What Brandon did was almost unforgivable—and the _only_ reason I say 'almost' is because, according to Brandon, he was struggling with the anguish of the Hawks losing, and the joy that it was Tommy who sank the puck. And his happiness for Tommy won.”

Tommy's father broke the silence. “Do you believe him?”

Andrew took a few seconds to think. “I did when he told me. Which is why Brandon is not currently nursing several broken bones. And upon reflection, I still do. Of course, I also still think that it was imbecilic to an almost unfathomable degree, but I suppose that terminal stupidity—when heightened emotions are involved, anyway—isn't a reason to hate someone forever. However, should Tommy feel differently, I am quite sure I could muster up the will to do exactly that.”

“Well, if he does brave the lions and stay for breakfast,” Daniel remarked, “I'll have to make sure his omelet has a special filling. Sidney, do you have any emetics in the house? Or laxatives? Preferably extra strength.”

Almost choking on her laughter, Taylor asked Sid, “Are meals with them always like this?”

“Like what?” Sid asked brightly.

**********

Because they were going to be eleven (presumably), Elisabeth directed Sid, Andrew, and Taylor to set the table in Sid's dining room, which he almost never used. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had. He also couldn't remember. . . .

“Are these dishes mine?”

“They are now.”

For some reason, Taylor thought that was funny. Sid scowled at her.

“Go away.”

“Forget it.”

“Tay. Go away.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to talk to Andrew.”

“About what?”

Sid considered what would be the most likely thing to make her run away in horror.

“Our sex life.”

Taylor pulled out a chair and plopped down in it. “There's no power on this earth great enough to get me to leave now.”

Sid goggled at her. “You actually want to hear about my sex life?”

“Not really, no. But I definitely want to hear you _try_ to talk about sex. I bet it's hysterical.”

Sid scowled at her again—and then shared the wealth with Andrew, who was convulsing into a handful of napkins.

“You're supposed to stick up for me, you know.”

“Oh Sidney. It sticks up for you all the time.”

Sid refused to admit that was funny. He _refused_ to admit that was funny. . . .

“Okay. That was pretty funny.”

“Why, thank you. I do try. Now, let's finish setting the table; breakfast will be done soon.” He scanned the table and he got that crease between his eyes.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I'm just considering the seating arrangements. If Brandon does stay, where will be the most uncomfortable place for him to sit?”

“You can put him across from me,” Taylor offered; “I'm really good at tactless remarks.”

“She really, really is,” Sid admitted.

“An excellent notion. Now, I think someone's mother should be on one side of him. Your mother is too nice, Sidney, so: my mother or Tommy's?”

“Tommy's,” both Crosbys said in unison; by unspoken accord, neither decided to comment on Andrew's characterization of their mother. “Your mom is more effective from a distance,” Sid added. “Besides, she enjoys a challenge.”

“That's quite true. All right, then. It's a pity that Tommy will want to sit next to him; otherwise, I'd put you there.”

“Me? Why not you?”

“Two reasons. One: I plan on staring forbiddingly at him. Like this.” He fixed his eyes on Sid, who lasted for about six seconds before he began to twitch.

“That is _excellent_ , Andrew.”

“Thank you, Taylor.”

“What's your other reason?”

“I want to have a good view of him reacting to all of the rest of you, and I wouldn't have that if I were seated next to him. I'm quite sure I deserve a reward for my earlier efforts.”

Sid snickered. “For sure.”

Andrew winked at him. Then he moved to the door and called out, “Dad? How much longer?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Thanks.” Andrew turned around. “Taylor: I would consider it a great personal favor if you gave Sidney and me a few minutes alone.”

“Why?”

“I have an overwhelming urge to explore his tonsils. And possibly some, shall we say, more southern terrain?”

“Ick.” She stood up. “If it were your terrain, I'd stay. But Sid's? No way. Use your time wisely, Andrew; I'm not usually this nice.”

“She's really, really not,” Sid agreed.

“Bitch,” Taylor said, totally without rancor . . . and left the room.

Andrew reeled Sid in and kissed him thoroughly.

“Yum. What was that for?”

“Just because. Also, because I didn't want to lie to your sister. Although I almost always have an urge to explore your tonsils, so I suppose it wasn't a lie at all. Anyway: what did you want to talk to me about?”

Sid fidgeted. Opened his mouth . . . and closed it again. He held up one finger, gathered his thoughts, and forged ahead.

“I'm feeling really shitty about something. Something I did to you.”

Andrew stared at him. “What on earth are you talking about? What did you do? Or, more likely, what do you _think_ you did?”

“Yesterday, at the game . . . well, before the game. After you sang. I . . . I did to you what Saad did to Tommy.”

“You've lost me.”

“I kissed you on the ice. Without talking to you about it first. Andrew, I outed you yesterday!”

“No, you didn't!”

“Yes, I did!”

“Sidney, don't be absurd! The situations are entirely different.”

“I'm not so sure.”

“Well, I am. Look, Sidney: let's be completely honest here. I didn't know how you'd react when I popped up on the ice and started to sing. Nor did I know how you'd react when I zipped around telling everybody to have a good game. And I _certainly_ didn't know what you would do when I got to you. But when you held your arms out to me . . . and then, when you kissed me . . . I realize now that I was wrong. I actually _did_ know; I knew, inside, that you would react precisely as you did: with your whole heart.”

He smiled at Sid. And Sid would have bet he could read Andrew's entire heart in that smile.

“To continue, at the risk of beating my point to death: the entire world would have known who Sasha was by the end of the evening anyway. Because if we hadn't had our moment _before_ the game, then the first question _after_ the game would have been who I was; you _told_ the press that I'd be there. And if I'm being frank: in actuality, I suspect that question would never have come up, because if you think for one minute that I would not have congratulated your win with a positively epic kiss, you are sadly mistaken; I had absolutely no intention of having my introduction to the world as your fiancé take place in some bland, staged fashion. So please disabuse yourself of the notion that the two situations are in any way similar. Please, Sidney!”

Sid thought about everything Andrew had said. Carefully, because this was important.

“I . . . okay, if you're a hundred percent sure, then . . . okay. But you have to admit, Andrew: the details might be different, but the two situations are really, really similar.”

This time, Andrew thought about it. “All right. I will grant you this: there are certain superficial commonalities. And let me stress that adjective: superficial. Both kisses did take place on the same surface, after all. But there's really no comparison; the kiss you gave me was a gazillion times better than the one Tommy got.”

Sid laughed. And his heart eased, he wrapped his arms around his fiancé.

“Aren't you two done yet?” Taylor asked from the doorway.

“Nope.”

“Never.”

“Ugh. Anyway: Andrew, your dad said just another couple of minutes, so he wants you guys in there.”

“All right.” Andrew cleared his throat. “Actually, though: I'm going to run upstairs first; I really need to gargle.”

“I'd hurry if I were you; your dad seems to be timing things in milliseconds.”

**********

“Those of you who want scrambled eggs, go sit down,” Daniel ordered, pulling a large platter out of the oven and scraping the contents of his skillet on top. “Taylor, if you would?” He handed the platter off, then reached back into the oven and took out another platter nearly overflowing with potatoes.

“Those look delicious,” Sid said sincerely. And they smelled even better, he thought, lowering his head to get another whiff.

Daniel grinned at him. “Please make sure they arrive at the table undepleted. Or relatively so, at any rate. Lis, the bacon and sausage are warming in the other oven.”

“Bacon _and_ sausage, Dad?” Andrew was back.

“Don't start, Sasha; it's a celebration.”

Andrew opened his mouth, and then grinned. “You're right. I am officially shutting down my inner dietitian.”

“Until the end of time, I hope,” his father retorted.

“Don't push it; I can feel a lecture on the perils of saturated fats struggling to escape.”

Daniel ignored him. “Now then: everyone who wants omelets should line up, plate in hand.” He gestured. “We have an assortment of fillings, and these cook quite quickly, so make up your minds in advance, please: hesitation leads to rubbery eggs, and we can't have that.”

“Is there any other kind?” Tommy's father said in a stage whisper—and with an ostentatiously straight face. His wife was not at all fazed by this comment.

“I told you when we got engaged that I liked my eggs thoroughly cooked, and you married me anyway. Deal with it.”

Sid laughed. “You're having scrambled, right?” he asked Andrew. “Good. You take the potatoes in; I need to get in line.”

Sid entertained himself watching Daniel; what could have been a frantic undertaking (there were five people having omelets) was instead a study in . . . well, whatever science assembly line precision belonged to.

Daniel was just plating the last omelet (Sid's own) when Tommy walked in with Saad.

“Ah, just in time,” Daniel said; he handed Sid his plate and gave the newcomers a penetrating look. “Tommy, you're a fan of fried eggs, I believe: up and easy, if I remember correctly.”

“You got it, Daniel,” Tommy grinned. Sid thought he looked . . . really, really happy.

“Coming right up. And Brandon?”

“Uh, a cheese omelet? If it's not too much trouble?”

“Of course not. I'll do the omelet first, since the pan's ready. Brandon: please go into the dining room and see if anybody needs anything.”

With a look of total trepidation, Saad obeyed. Sid held back a snicker.

“Are things okay?” he asked Tommy.

Tommy nodded. “I think so. I'll be making him pay forever. Even if this goes nowhere, he'll pay.”

Sid didn't hold back his snickers this time. “Good.”

“No, not good. Excellent!” came the comment from the stove. “Now, here's Brandon's plate; please don't drop it. We wouldn't want his breakfast to be marred by mishap.”

“We wouldn't?” Sid asked.

Tommy laughed, and Sid took the opportunity of trying to ask Daniel (silently), “Did you really?” Daniel merely smiled at him. And broke two eggs into his skillet with a dramatic flourish.

**********

After everybody was settled (Saad had taken his assigned seat looking like someone who knew he deserved the penalty box) and had complimented Daniel, who merely waved it all away, Elisabeth got the ball rolling.

“Tell me, Brandon: shall we call you that, or do you have a nickname you prefer?”

Saad opened his mouth, but Taylor got in first.

“The Hawks call him Man-Child.”

“Really?” Elisabeth's tone was of polite disbelief. Tommy's mother's tone, on the hand, was neither.

“Better half right than all wrong.”

Sid's mother tried to make her laugh sound like a cough; she wasn't particularly successful.

“You know, Tommy, I have to say I was floored by this development,” Daniel said. “You never breathed a word! I have to admire such discretion, particularly in one so young. You're older than Tommy, aren't you, Brandon?”

“But still half a child. According to the Hawks.” If anything, Tommy's mother's tone had gotten worse.

Sid felt Andrew shift next to him and stole a look; he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. If Andrew were a statue, Sid decided, it would be called 'The Face of Doom.' Pretty good for someone who was digging his fingers into his thighs to keep from laughing.

“Ma!” Tommy said, half under his breath.

“Yes?”

“Can we just eat?”

“We are,” his father pointed out.

“Some of us.” But Tommy wasn't trying to hide his grin. Or his enjoyment.

“I rather think we're all feasting. On something.” That was Elisabeth; Sid felt Andrew quiver again.

“Thank you, Lis! Do you like your omelet, Brandon? It's different from the others.”

Sid's father started choking; Sid turned and pounded him on the back. Then he asked, “How is it different, Daniel?”

“Well, I ran out of the Vermont cheddar, so I had to use goat cheese. I do hope you like it, Brandon; I do, but for some it's an acquired taste. And of course, each batch is different, depending on the diet of the goat. Some can have an earthy flavor, others almost a metallic one. Like magnesium.”

Sid's father choked again.

“Speaking of the Hawks,” Taylor said in the most falsely innocent voice Sid had ever heard from her, “which we weren't, but you know, goats, hawks, whatever: did Tazer have anything to say to you about the handshake line last night?”

“Taylor,” Elisabeth said reprovingly, “it's much too soon to bring that up. At least wait until we've all finished our meal. You know, my mother used to say that even the most unpleasant topics were far more palatable after the carcass had been picked clean.”

Andrew's quiver upgraded itself to a quake.

Daniel sighed nostalgically. “I remember the first time I heard her say that. Of course, it sounds much more . . . vivid . . . in Russian.”

“It does, doesn't it, darling?”

“Does it have to be any special kind of carcass, Elisabeth? Allen and I don't really like chicken.”

“Okay, look!” Saad had evidently had it. Clanking his silverware onto his plate, he said, “I know I fucked up!”

Without missing a beat, Tommy's mother slapped the back of his head. “You're not on the ice now; watch your language!”

Saad took a deep breath. Then another one. “Sorry. I screwed up. Big time. Don't you think I know that? But I didn't know what I was doing! I wasn't thinking clearly—hell, I wasn't thinking at all! We had just lost, in a game seven final! We lost, the Pens won. And they won because of a shot this guy made.” He jerked his thumb to his left, and took another breath.

“And as he got closer to me in the line, all I could think was that I was happy for him. So damned happy for him. Honest to God. And I'm trying to keep myself together and not start bawling right then and there, because we lost and at the same time, I'm feeling happy and . . . and _proud_ of Tommy, and feeling . . . well, I was kind of out of my mind with how, I don't know, _conflicting_ all those feelings were.

“So when he got to me. . . .” Saad paused for a couple of seconds, and the breaths he was taking now were ragged, “I . . . let go of myself, and my pain, and acted on the other stuff. And kissed Tommy. And I _wasn't_ thinking, and it _wasn't_ the best time to do it, and it _definitely_ wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done in my life . . . but at least it was honest!”

The silence around the table rang for a few seconds before Saad began again. “And to answer your question, Taylor: Tazer started raging at me the second we got into the tunnel, and the only reason he stopped was because there were reporters waiting for us. Which was fu-- frickin' hell on earth. And the minute the press left, he started in again. And then the Hawks PR guys took over. And then my entire family!

“And I didn't sleep at all last night, thinking about it nonstop, and I knew that the most important thing I had to do was talk to Tommy. But he didn't answer his phone, and I didn't want to just leave a message, so I got in the car and I came over here, hoping that I hadn't completely ruined everything.”

“And what happened when I got here?” He made a noise like a squashed cat. “I get myself five new assholes ripped by Tommy's self-appointed enforcer over there. As bad as Tazer was, Andrew was ten times worse; I have _never_ been so frigging terrified in my entire life—and he didn't even hit me! To be honest, I kept wishing he would! Pain I can deal with . . .” his voice trailed off a little and he shifted in his chair, “but shame? That's a different story.

“And then two minutes after he left, Tommy came in. And what little Andrew left, he took care of. And I deserved every bit of it. And probably more. But the one thing that Tommy didn't stomp on? Was . . . my hope. That what I did wasn't completely unforgivable.” He turned and looked at Tommy full on. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

He turned back to the table. “So, that's the whole story. Now let me ask you this: don't you think I've suffered enough?”

With the exception of Tommy, every other person at the table opened her or his mouth and said, “No.” Andrew took it further.

“As you can see, Brandon: we protect what's ours; that's how this family operates. So, if you want to be a part of this family, you'll accept that fact and put up with us. And when the time comes—and I will say that your honesty, both earlier and just now, has impressed me to the point that I predict that time will come, perhaps sooner than later—the barbs will transform themselves into teasing. But here's a hint: you shouldn't ask us if you've suffered enough; Tommy will tell us when _he_ thinks so. And that's what matters.”

Saad looked at Andrew for a few seconds, and then looked around the table. When he got to Tommy, he paused—and Tommy raised his eyebrows, which made Saad's lips twitch a little. He then turned back to Andrew.

“Fair enough.” He hesitated, and then went on, “One thing you all should know, though. Something I realized . . . oh, about four this morning. Last night, before I kissed Tommy, two other guys kissed on the ice. Right, Sid?”

Sid felt himself stiffen—and also felt Andrew's hand land on his thigh and squeeze. He relaxed, and nodded.

“And seeing that kiss might've . . . well, inspired me . . . to hope that maybe someday Tommy and I can have what you and Andrew do now. So: thanks for going first.”

Sid cocked his head and considered Saad for a few seconds. He turned to Andrew and smiled—and drank up the smile he got in return. He looked back at Saad and said, “Well, you're welcome, I guess. But . . . believe me, I didn't do it for you.”

Saad laughed; “Don't worry; I know.” He dropped his napkin on the table and stood up. “Could you all excuse me for a minute?”

“You remember where?” Tommy asked him.

“Yeah. Be right back.”

Tommy watched Saad leave, the smile spreading across his face matching the one in his eyes; every other eye at the table was latched onto Daniel. Who leaned across the table and said to Tommy, “I do hope it was nothing he ate.”

A few seconds later, Tommy asked, puzzled, “Why is everybody laughing?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

When everybody had finished eating, Daniel asked Tommy's parents, “Do you have any special plans for today?”

They looked at each other and shook their heads. “Just visit with Tommy, I guess.”

“And get to know Brandon better,” Tommy's mother added.

“Where are you planning on doing that?” Andrew asked. “If you want to use my studio . . . you know, my _soundproofed_ studio . . . you certainly may.”

Tommy's mother—and Tommy—sniggered in unison; his father rolled his eyes.

“I don't think we'll need that. But I'd like to stretch my legs; they're still a mite cramped from that plane ride. Is that okay with you, Louise? Guys?”

“That sounds good, Dad. I was gonna make Bran verify the thread count of my sheets, but I guess he can do that later.”

Amidst the general hilarity, Sid poked Andrew in the side; “He's definitely been hanging around with you too much.”

Poking him back, Andrew retorted, “You buy fancier sheets than I do.”

Ignoring them, Tommy's father said, “Would any of you like to come with?”

“No, thank you, Allen,” Daniel said. “The rest of us have a few details to discuss about the wedding.” Ignoring the snorts from both Andrew and Sid, he cocked his head. “Actually, would you like to join us? It might be good practice.” He gave Tommy an assessing look. “I see an outdoor wedding for you, Tommy. Yes, definitely. What's your favorite color?”

“Plaid.”

“I can work with that.”

“Well, good. And thanks but no thanks, Daniel. See you later, guys.”

Daniel stood up. “Why don't we reconvene in the media room? I'll go get ready.” He fixed his son with an extremely sharp glare. “I'll expect you in no more than three minutes.”

Andrew waved his hand airily; “I wouldn't dream of being late.” He managed to withhold his sigh until his father left the room. “Sidney,” he asked, “do you love me?”

“You know I do.”

“How much?”

Repressing a grin, Sid said, “A whole bunch. But before you ask: I don't love you enough to elope. 'Cause I'd like to play a little more hockey before I die. And if we eloped, your dad would snuff me out like a rabid squirrel. Or would it be chipmunk?”

Andrew laughed. A little. “Well, you can't blame me for trying. Will you still love me if I confess to you that I really don't want a wedding in glorious Technicolor?”

Hugging his fiancé, Sid said, “You know I will. And I don't either. But Sasha: the point of a wedding is to get married. And we'll be married for the rest of our lives. All of the . . . stuff that your Dad is planning? That's for everybody else. Who only get to have it for a single day.”

“I suppose. No, you're right. Thanks for the reminder, Sidney. But . . . one thing you'll need to do?”

“Anything. What?”

“Keep me sane during this.”

“I'll do my best.”

“You know, Trina, Troy,” Elisabeth remarked, “if I haven't told you before, I truly think your son is one of the most exceptional men I have ever met. Congratulations.”

Sid flushed, but before anybody could say anything, there was a shout from down the hall.

“Time!”

**********

“Now then,” Daniel said, after everyone was settled (he was standing, the better to pace), “I've put together this little presentation of our choices.” He woke up his laptop and picked up a laser pointer. “If we're efficient, this won't take long. First of all. . . .”

He was interrupted by a ring tone. Which Sid had never heard before (well, actually, it seemed vaguely familiar) but which made all of the Copleys groan; Daniel, who almost never cursed, actually said, “Shit!” under his breath. He pulled out his phone, said, “My apologies; I must take this call,” and walked out of the room, saying, “Hello, Father” as he did so.

Elisabeth said something in Russian, which made Andrew snort. Sid nudged him.

“What does that mean?”

“Roughly translated: 'what fresh hell is this?'”

Taylor laughed. Sid . . . didn't. Instead, he glared in the general direction of Massachusetts.

Andrew leaned forward and inspected the laptop. “Good God,” he said after a minute; “Dad actually _coded_ this thing? And . . . Jesus Christ: it's multimedia!” The look of utter horror on his face was . . . pretty entertaining. To the Crosbys, anyway; Taylor had a pillow over her face.

Sid pulled Andrew back. “Calm down, Sasha.”

“Sidney, I _can't._ . . .”

“Yes, you can.” Sid used his captain's voice. “You can and you will.” They locked eyes, and after a bit, Andrew subsided.

“Fine. I'll do my best. But be warned, Sidney: some things aren't negotiable.”

Daniel walked back into the room, an extremely odd look on his face. “Just a moment, Father,” he said, and held out his phone to his son. “Sasha, your grandfather would like to speak with you.”

Andrew grimaced, but took the phone, stood up, and strode out; Sid listened to him ask polite questions about his grandparents' health until he was out of earshot.

“Is everything all right, darling?”

Daniel shook himself. “I suppose. That may well have been the oddest conversation I've ever had with my father.”

“How so?”

“He was . . . almost affable,” Daniel said.

“Daniel's father is an asshole,” Sid explained to his family. “To him and Elisabeth, anyway.”

“Sid!” his mom said reprovingly.

“No, no, Trina; Sidney is quite correct: my parents have never approved of me or Lis.”

“Why not?” Taylor demanded. “You two are awesome!”

Daniel beamed at her. “Thank you, Taylor. And to answer your question: no one really knows why. But your brother gave them a little lesson in manners the first time they met, and . . . well, let's say that it seems to have sunk in, at least a little; they were noticeably less obnoxious last Thanksgiving.”

“'Less obnoxious' is a relative term, darling,” Elisabeth said dryly. “What did he want?”

“To express his _astonishment_ at the news.”

“They didn't know?” Sid was surprised. “I guess I never really thought about it, but I assumed they would have. Or figured it out, at least. I mean, I was at their house for Thanksgiving dinner with all of you. And how many people named Sasha are there in the world? Let alone in Boston?”

“They didn't know for sure. Because I refused to confirm it. Naturally, I had to tell them that it wasn't my place to reveal things said to me in confidence.”

Sid had to grin at the look of patently insincere innocence on Daniel's face.

Daniel winked at him. “I may also have implied that you made me sign an NDA.”

That really made Sid laugh. “I'll have to send Eli an e-mail and ask him to casually drop the bomb that he's known for sure for months.”

“An excellent idea, my dear.”

“You really do fit right in, Sidney. Anyway: I will say that he was genuinely pleased that Sasha's voice seems to be unaffected by his surgery.”

“Well, that's something, at least,” Sid decided. He grinned again; “I bet he was less than pleased at Sasha's choice in husbands.”

“Actually,” Daniel said slowly, “I don't know if that's true. He and Mother want to host an engagement dinner for the entire family. Including as many of your family as can conveniently attend.” He frowned at his laptop. “I never anticipated that; I'll have to make some revisions.”

Sid opened his mouth . . . and then closed it without speaking. And gave a mental shrug.

Andrew walked back into the room then. He handed his father back his phone, and sat down. “My grandparents send their very best wishes to both of us, Sidney,” he said.

There was something about his tone . . . or lack thereof, Sid decided. “And do you believe them?”

A brief nod. “I do. They sounded . . . most sincere. They want to throw a big bash for us. To celebrate our engagement.”

“Your dad was just telling us that. Uh, is that something we want to do?”

Andrew made their shorthand gesture for “wry face”; “I don't know. Do we?” He looked directly at his father.

“Do lose the attitude, Sasha,” Daniel said with considerable asperity; “I'm not responsible for my parents' actions.”

“No, Dad, you're not. Only they are. And while they've never been anything less than nice to _me_ , their actions towards you and Mom have been reprehensible. So perhaps the question should be directed solely to my father, rather than to his inner wedding planner, who's been waiting nearly thirty years to come out.”

Elisabeth let out a noise that from anybody else in the world would have to be called a guffaw.

“Lis!” Daniel looked wounded.

“Oh, I _am_ sorry, darling, but. . . .” She gave up the struggle and started roaring. “Oh, Daniel! You know perfectly well you've been planning Sasha's wedding since the day he was born. Truth to tell, for longer than that: since the day you and I got engaged.” She turned to the others. “He and my father micromanaged every single solitary detail of our wedding to the point of madness, while my mother and I just looked on in disbelief. Daniel and Papa spent _three days_ in Daniel's lab perfecting the formula for the frosting on the wedding cake.”

Andrew burst out laughing, as did Taylor; Sid managed—barely—to control himself.

“Well, perhaps we did go a bit overboard . . . but frosting is important!”

Sid couldn't help it: he started honking.

When everybody had calmed down, Andrew said, “To return to our discussion: Dad, are you interested in having this party? Or would you rather not have them included to that extent? It truly is your decision. And _I_ will be the one to inform them, one way or another. I'll be honest, and say that I might have a more difficult time in accepting graciously than in refusing politely, but I'm sure I'm up to the effort of either.”

Sid bumped shoulders with Andrew while Daniel thought it over. “Of course you are,” he said softly.

“Captain Crosby, I do believe you are not completely impartial.”

They smiled at each other.

“Well, boys,” Daniel said, “if you're sure, then I'll say that I would very much like my parents to host this event. They used to do it for every engagement, but they stopped about fifteen years ago; Mother said she wasn't up to the task any longer. That they are willing to do so for you two . . . is a gesture, I think. And one that I would like you to accept.”

“Then we will,” Sid said.

“Excellent! Thank you both very much. Now then.” He rubbed his hands. “Let's begin by looking at venues. I've already altered my presentation to include only those in Massachusetts, but it's the work of a moment to put the Canadian ones back, in case you want to change your mind.”

“Let's stick with the ones near Boston,” Sid said; “you guys have no idea how nuts it can get in Nova Scotia.”

“Very well. Now: I almost didn't include things like hotel ballrooms—the security is woefully inadequate—but there is one that we might consider. More interesting, however. . . .” And he was off.

Sid would have been happy with anything, but he was too smart to say so. Still, some of the places looked nice. He didn't really want a museum, but the Gardner looked fun. Andrew agreed, but it turned out it wasn't big enough, and Sid stepped on Andrew's foot before he could suggest shortening the guest list.

Andrew rejected Symphony Hall out of hand. Which Sid didn't mind (it looked kind of dreary), but. . . .

“Why?” Sid asked him. “It's big enough.”

“Only one of us is a musician, Sidney.”

“I don't care about that.”

“Well, I do.”

Sid rolled his eyes.

“Would you want to get married in a rink?”

“Sure,” Sid shrugged.

“Boston Garden?” Andrew asked.

Sid stared at him for a minute. Was he serious? “Uh, no. Okay, I take your point.”

“You know, Sidney: I've thought of several ways to include some ice time in as part of the preparations. But first things first!”

Andrew stifled a sigh.

The mansions were . . . something. Both Sid and Andrew sat up straight at one on Boston's North Shore: the house, which probably had something like twenty bedrooms, was built on a cliff that overlooked the ocean.

“That's . . . spectacular!” Andrew said.

“It really, really is,” Sid agreed. “What do you guys think?”

“It's . . . impressive,” his dad said. “I don't want to be crass here, but I can't imagine what that place costs!”

“It's probably the most expensive of everything on my list,” Daniel admitted, “but it also has the most character. And not to be sidetracked, because we haven't discussed this point yet, but it would accommodate a variety of timing choices.” He did something to his laptop. “Here's a simulation of the gardens in the late afternoon; the light would be perfect for photographs. And in the unhappy event that it rained, well,” he did something else, “the ballroom has an unobstructed view down to the shore below. Very dramatic!”

“It's truly lovely, darling,” Elisabeth said.

“Isn't it?”

“I like it,” Sid said.

“I do too,” Andrew agreed. “However: the very fact that _you_ said it was expensive gives me pause, Dad. How much does it cost?”

“Sasha,” his father said impatiently, “why on earth does that matter?”

“Of course it matters! I mean, I know I can afford it, and from what you tell me, Sidney makes more money than God, but still, it's only prudent . . . ouch!”

Andrew rubbed the side of his face where the laser pointer had struck him, as his father stormed out of the room.

There was a moment's silence, and then Elisabeth said, in a tone that boded no good at all, “Alexander Singleton Copley.”

Andrew sat up straight. So did Sid, for that matter.

“You have done or said any number of things in your life that I felt were unwise. But never before have I had to fight the impulse to call you stupid.”

Sid stole a glance; Andrew's face had gone stark white. But he didn't say anything.

“How could any son of ours be such an idiot? An unthinking, uncaring idiot!”

Red spots had begun to appear in Andrew's cheeks. “I am neither unthinking nor uncaring. What I am is an adult. An adult who happens to be the son of two parents who taught him, his entire life, to be self-sufficient. I have worked hard to be that, Mom, these past nine years, and even leaving my inheritances aside, I am an extremely wealthy man. Why should I assume you and Dad would pay for our entire wedding?”

“How could you be so imbecilic as to imagine we wouldn't?”

“Stop calling me stupid,” Andrew said, grating each word out between his teeth.

“I will when you stop behaving that way. And answer my question, if you please: why would you even entertain the idea that we would not? Do you understand us so little?”

Sid could feel Andrew flinch.

“Well, of course I understand you. And of course I knew you and Dad would want to pay for things. But I didn't think that would include the actual wedding itself.”

“No, you didn't think. But I would bet real money that your fiancé did.”

Andrew whirled to face Sid. “Is that true? Is she right?”

Sid sighed. “Yes.” And after a beat, he added, “Oh come on, Andrew: your parents haven't let me pay for a single thing practically since the night I first met them. And you _know_ how important this wedding is to your dad. So, in the interests of complete honesty, I have to tell you: I think maybe you have a blind spot about this. And I think I know why. Do you want to know?”

Andrew stared long and hard at Sid before he answered. “Yes.”

Taking a deep breath, Sid told him, “You've just spent the last four months or so feeling helpless and out of control. Of almost everything in your life. You couldn't sing. You didn't know if you'd even be _able_ to sing again. Ever. And there was _nothing_ you could do. But wait. And live with the uncertainty. And hope for the best. And for the most part, you did a great job, Andrew, you really did. So, it's maybe kind of understandable that today of all days, after you just found out that you _didn't_ lose your voice, and you _will_ be able to get your professional life back, that your . . . I don't know, _eagerness_ to feel totally back in control again made you . . . kind of lose focus.”

Andrew dropped his eyes, but Sid could see him blinking; after a moment, he reached out and touched Andrew's cheek.

Andrew lifted his own hand and grasped Sid's. Without raising his head, he asked, “Do you agree with Sidney's assessment, Mom?”

“I think it's eminently logical. And phrased far more nicely than I would have been able to manage.”

Andrew was silent for a space. Then, squeezing Sid's hand tightly, he released it and stood up.

“Well, then. I hope you all will excuse me, but I need to go and apologize to my father.” He headed towards the door—and paused. “Actually, Mom, I'd like to apologize to you too. Will you join us?”

“In a moment, Sasha.”

Andrew nodded, and continued walking out. Elisabeth closed her eyes briefly. Quite obviously gathering herself, she addressed Sid and his family . . . perhaps his family more than Sid, actually.

“I would like to ask you to forgive us for that little scene. It has been an extremely difficult period for us, these last few months. And, not that I say this to exculpate my son in any way, but there is no denying that Daniel is somewhat . . . obsessed with this wedding.” She looked briefly at Sid and gave him a whisper of a smile.

“Elisabeth, there's nothing for you to apologize for,” Sid's mother said. “Nothing at all. But . . . no one will throw things at us if we ask to pay for part of the wedding, will they?”

“I will,” Taylor said brightly. “Just on general principles, you understand.”

Everybody laughed. And then Elisabeth said, “I've already informed Daniel, in no uncertain terms, that he is to allow you to pay for whatever you wish. And if there is anything, or anybody, you want to include, naturally, you must feel free to do so.” She hesitated, and added, “I'll be frank: I don't think the timing for this . . . conference . . . was ideal. I'm sure everybody is spent, with the pressure of getting through the playoffs—not to mention the stress of Sasha's recovery—and then the excitement of the finals. But both Sidney and Andrew seem so eager to get married, and there's no denying that time is short. Nonetheless. . . .

Sid's father cleared his throat. “Believe me, Elisabeth: everybody understands. And you're right: I've never seen Sid so eager for something—especially at the end of a season. Actually, maybe the timing isn't so bad: usually, Sid gets kind of reclusive after the playoffs. It won't be a bad thing for you to have the wedding to focus on, will it, Sid?”

“Uh, no. Not at all.” Sid met Elisabeth's eyes: “if he only knew,” he telegraphed. Her lips twitched; message received, all right.

“And as long as we're apologizing,” his father went on, “I want to say that I'm real sorry for bringing up what things cost in the first place. Seems to me like that was the spark for the whole thing. Trina told me and told me, but . . . well, I should have listened.”

“Troy: please don't give it another thought,” Elisabeth said firmly. “It would have happened anyway; I've known both of them for a very long time. Perhaps it's truly for the best that we got it out of the way this early. Now, please excuse me; I should go join them.”

She stood up. “I do hope their disagreement hasn't soured either of them on that location for the wedding; the view is simply breathtaking, isn't it? And the cliff itself? It will be lovely to have such a convenient method of murder near to hand.”

She smiled brilliantly and left the room before even Sid had recovered enough to start laughing.

**********

When she'd calmed down, Taylor shook her head. “This is real drama. I feel like I'm watching HBO. No, a miniseries on Lifetime.”

Sid made a face.

“It's interesting,” Sid's mother said thoughtfully. “I guess it doesn't matter how rich you are, people still fight about money. Over weddings, anyway.”

“Do they usually fight about who gets to pay?” Sid asked dryly. “If so, then Andrew and I have been married for months; that's about the only thing we _do_ fight about. Whenever we go out to eat—not that we've done it lately—there's a tussle.”

“Who wins?” Taylor asked.

“Me, usually.” With a wide grin. “I have better reflexes than he does.”

“Sid,” his dad asked, “does Andrew really not know how much money you earn?”

“Probably not,” Sid said after thinking about it. “He's never asked me. And if he was really curious, I think he would. It's kind of funny: for all that he's been practically living with the Pens for months, I don't think he really _gets_ how much any of us are paid. He has a fit if Tommy buys him a drink. Well, maybe not Tommy, but one of the other young guys.”

He yawned. “Sorry. Anyway: will you guys come to this party at Andrew's grandparents' place?”

“I want to,” Taylor said. “I'm really curious. Ever since he gave his speech after Andrew's concert. I just don't get it: why would anybody try to hide the fact that their kid is a genius? Which Daniel obviously is. Why would anyone else even care? So it's engineering and not business or whatever. What difference does it make?”

Sid shrugged. “It doesn't make any sense to me, either.”

“Maybe . . .” Sid's father started, and then stopped. He looked almost shocked that he had said anything.

“What, Dad?”

His father cast a quick glance at Sid's mother. Who gave him a small nod.

“Well, maybe it's a combination of the fact that he was a genius but at something they didn't know anything about. So they really didn't know what to do. Or, maybe, understand. Maybe . . . they felt . . . inadequate. I mean . . .” and he quite obviously steeled himself to continue, “I was thrilled when you took to hockey, Sid. And I was able to help. At least at the beginning. And encourage. And do all those things that a dad is supposed to do. But . . . it's hard for a parent to face the fact that his kid is so much better at something than he ever was. Could ever have been, I guess. And I tried, really hard, not to let it get to me.” He paused. “I don't know how successful I was. But I did try. Even if I never admitted to myself at the time that was what was going on. Maybe I tried too hard, and that's why I pushed you so much. But . . . well, that's another story.”

After one quick glance at Sid's face, he fixed his eyes on the floor. “But at least with you, Sid, I knew hockey. I could understand the game. I could watch you, and see what you were doing. I could _get_ it. It made _sense_. It could be that Daniel's family didn't even have that.”

There was absolute silence in the room. Then Sid swallowed, and said, “Dad: don't take this the wrong way, but . . . what brought this on?”

Mouth quirking, he looked up. “You had to go there first, didn't you? Well, if you must know: I've been . . . seeing someone. A counselor. For about a year now, I guess. More or less.”

Sid and Taylor exchanged glances; evidently, she had had no idea either.

“A year? But . . . why? What made you decide to do that?”

“I got . . . well, kind of a wake-up call. When you got hurt last April. That maybe I wasn't thinking as much about what was good for you as I should be.”

Sid's eyes flew to his mom. Who gave him the world's tiniest nod.

“Anyway . . . Sid, for what it's worth now: if I took my own stuff out on you, I'm sorry.”

Sid bounded across the room and pulled his father into a hug.

**********

When the Copleys came back into the media room, all three of them were smiling, which Sid was glad about.

“Sidney, your phone is ringing virtually nonstop,” Andrew announced. “Would you like me to go get it for you?”

Trying not to laugh at the look of outrage on Daniel's face (the détente was a little shaky, it seemed), Sid said, “It can wait.”

Gratitude replaced outrage. Then Elisabeth cleared her throat meaningfully. And looked at her husband.

“Ah. Well. I've been given to understand that I've been a trifle . . . overly zealous in my desire to forge ahead with the planning. If you'd rather postpone some of this until later, we certainly may.”

Andrew shook his head. “I think we should do some more now, Dad. And I'm not just saying that to make you feel better; you're right when you say there isn't a lot of time. But . . . perhaps you could focus on only the most critical decisions this morning?”

“I agree, Daniel. Better to do the important stuff when we're all together.”

“Very well. We're all agreed on the venue?”

Everybody nodded.

“Let's move on, then.” Daniel looked around. “Where is my. . . ?”

Without a word, Andrew picked up the laser pointer and handed it over.

Daniel had the grace to flush a little. “Thank you, Sasha.”

“Don't mention it. Please.”

His father snorted. And pressed a button. Frowned. And pressed it again.

“Good God, Sasha,” he complained, in completely aggrieved tones, “how hard is that head of yours anyway? This thing is broken!”

All of the Crosbys started laughing; the other two Copleys rolled their eyes. And muttered. In Russian.

**********

Even without his pointer, Daniel was efficient. The schedule for the wedding day took next to no time at all.

“I know it's going to sound ridiculous,” Sid admitted, “but this is one time I really want a lot of pictures.”

“And I would like to end the evening outside in the moonlight,” Andrew said. He smiled at Sid; “Will you dance with me in the garden under the stars?”

Sid smiled back. “I'd love to.”

Daniel smiled beatifically.

Taylor rolled her eyes.

They moved on to décor.

“What are your colors going to be?”

Neither Sid nor Andrew had any idea how to answer that.

“I assume we'll both be dressed formally.” Andrew paused. “A late afternoon wedding: does that mean morning suits, a dinner jacket, or white tie?” He made a face. “If it's the last one: I don't know how I feel about wearing my work clothes to my own wedding.”

“You could get a new one. Something maybe a little different. I'll need to get one too.”

“We can go together.”

Daniel sighed happily.

Taylor gagged softly.

“So the only colors will be the flowers, I imagine. Dad, you're tons better at things like that. You pick what's best that time of year.”

“Except . . . could you maybe pick things like what you have in your garden? I love your garden. Especially the hollyhocks. Can you decorate with hollyhocks?”

“Why not? The maroon ones would be striking, I think.”

When Daniel moved onto food, Sid expected trouble. He was wrong.

“Sidney likes beef the best. And that's traditional. What's your favorite kind of beef, Sidney?”

“I like most beef. Prime rib is good. But I really love the steak you make with the peppercorns. I guess you couldn't do that for so many people, though.”

“We could ask. If we do that, then we have to have a gratin with it. Right, Dad?”

“Of course!”

“But there should be at least two other choices: fish being the most logical, I think. Alaskan salmon? Or—how about blue fin tuna! I love that. And perhaps do a raw bar beforehand. And there should be lots of hot appetizers, for when people are mingling. And let's not forget that there may be as many as 50 hockey players attending. Even though it's the offseason, we have to make sure there's enough. And if anything has bacon—to choose an example entirely at random, say, scallops wrapped in bacon—order enough for a thousand. As long as they're served hot; they're terrible if they're tepid.”

“At least one of my cousins is vegetarian; will that be a problem, Daniel?”

“Not in the slightest!”

“Mom, you'll make sure the bars are well stocked? And we'll be guided by you for the wine choices, once the meal is finalized. Oh, and Dad: I can't stress this enough: there must be _tons_ of ice. The cold drinks _have_ to be ice cold.”

“Speaking of ice,” Sid said, and then paused. “Sasha: would you object to an ice sculpture? I think they're so cool!”

Taylor started choking. “That's because they're made of ice, Squid!”

Andrew leaned forward and poked her in the side. “I wouldn't object at all—as long as it's not a sculpture of us.”

Daniel's face fell slightly.

“Well, I'm sorry, Dad. But I don't want to spend the first evening of the rest of my life watching simulacra of my husband and myself melt away.”

Sid shuddered. “Like the Wicked Witch. Uh, no.”

“We could do penguins, though. Actual penguins, I mean. Playing hockey.”

“No.”

“Whyever not? Penguins are important!”

“There's not enough of you in that.”

“Well, how about cavorting around on an iceberg, instead? God knows you drag me onto the ice every chance you get.”

Sid considered. “Well, maybe. But I want it to be about both of us.”

“Sidney, if there's an opera about penguins, I don't know it.”

Snapping his fingers, Sid said, “That's it! We'll have penguins putting on an opera!”

“Oh, that sounds marvelous! I wonder what opera we should use?”

Daniel was practically weeping, he was so happy. So happy, in fact, that he missed Taylor's miming shoving her finger down her throat.

**********

Less than an hour later, they were finished—or almost, anyway. Andrew had put his foot down about the music.

“I have to give this some serious thought, Dad. The music has to appeal to everybody.” He paused. “Perhaps a jazz ensemble would be best. But . . . no,” he shook his head, “I will not make a hasty decision about this. Or even a preliminary one.”

“Very well, Sasha.” Daniel didn't even seem put out.

“Here's something to consider, though: when would be the best time for me to sing? During the ceremony itself? Or during the reception?”

“You're going to sing?” Sid was thrilled.

“Sidney, please: did you think I wouldn't? I mean, I'm not going to perform an entire recital, but not sing to you at our wedding? It's unfathomable! Besides,” he added, with one of his sly grins, “if I remember correctly, I announced on Twitter that I would.”

Sid had to laugh.

The other thing that was tabled was the whole topic of who else would be in the wedding party.

“Sasha and I need to talk about this between ourselves first,” Sid explained.

Daniel accepted that too. “But soon, Sidney: it's customary to ask people before the invitations go out.”

Sid promised.

Daniel consulted his list. “I believe that covers almost everything of the highest importance. Trina, Troy: thank you for bearing with us through this discussion. Perhaps we could have our own conversation about what shape you'd like the festivities in Nova Scotia to take? I think that would be most useful, before we bring the boys in.”

Sid could tell both his parents thought _that_ was pretty funny, but all they said was, “Of course.”

Turning back to the other couch, Daniel said, “Now then. Two final things for now. First: getting back to the whole décor issue.” He paused. “Let me preface this by saying that I would like you both to be completely honest with me. In fact, I charge you both: if you do not like this, you must not hesitate to tell me so. Agreed?”

Both Sid and Andrew nodded their heads.

Daniel leaned over and picked up a leather folio from the table. He seemed almost . . . diffident.

“It occurred to me that it might be nice to have a motif for this event: a simple design that could go on the invitations, and perhaps on the napkins. Well, anywhere, actually. I thought first we might do something with your initials, but I couldn't come up with anything that pleased me; one of you,” and he gave his son a mock-glare, “has more initials than the other.”

“Blame yourself,” his son said. Impudently.

Daniel stuck his tongue out at him.

“So, I played around with some ideas. I thought it was important that whatever I came up with apply equally to both of you. A happy notion on my part, since both of you have emphasized it this morning. In any event,” and he opened the portfolio and handed it to them, “this is what I came up with.”

Sid and Andrew bent over and looked.

“Oh Dad!” Andrew said softly.

It took Sid a few seconds longer. He got the hockey stick right away, of course, but . . . “It's a note, right? A musical note?”

“It is! Look, Sidney: there's your stick, and here's a half note for me, and where they meet—it's a puck, but it's also a whole note. It represents who we are separately . . .”

“And who we are together. And how well we fit.”

“How we complement each other . . .”

“And how we complete each other.”

They both looked at the image again. And then both jumped up to hug Daniel.

“It's absolutely perfect, Dad!”

“It is! For sure! Thank you, so, so much!”

“You really like it?”

“Like isn't strong enough. Look, guys!” Sid scooped up the portfolio and showed it to his family.

When everybody had admired the picture, Sid closed the cover carefully. And then stretched.

“Well, I should go listen to my messages. Find out how much of my life Jen is going to take over. You do know, Andrew, that we'll probably get a parade.”

“You're kidding.”

“I'm really, really, not. And you have to come.”

“Oh, do I?”

Sid grinned. “For sure, you do. And I'll bet anything that Jen has a media plan for you too.” Now, _there_ was a bet Sid wouldn't lose.

“Ugh. Ah, well: according to one of my favorite old movies, 'the course of true love gathers no moss.' Go listen to your messages, and find out when the torture begins. I need to figure out when to go to Boston; I need to see the doctors, naturally, but I also need to see Sandro—my vocal coach.” He paused for a second or two, then shook his head. “I am sadly out of shape, vocally speaking.”

“Okay. Daniel, thanks for everything. Especially for the design.”

“Yes, Dad: especially for that. It's . . . us; I can't say anything but that.”

Daniel beamed. “I'm so happy you both like it so much! For more than one reason, too.”

“What are your reasons, Daniel?”

“Well, naturally, I'm pleased that like my sketch. But I'm especially pleased by how much you like it. It gives me hope. . . .”

“Yes?” Andrew asked, his eyes narrowing.

“That you won't mind one additional little task for today. It's extremely time-sensitive, or I would defer it.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, nothing much. There's a photographer coming, to take your picture.” He made a tsking noise. “Sadly, the New York Times is quite inflexible, and they're insisting on receiving it at least six weeks in advance!”

Sid yanked Andrew out of the room before he could say anything.

When they got to the bedroom, Sid closed the door. And said, “If you want to scream, go do it in the shower.”

Andrew just rolled his eyes. “I'm not going to scream. I might have, down there, but your manhandling distracted me. No, Sidney, I'm just going to sit down on the bed and have a little think.”

“About what?”

“Oh . . . I suppose you could call it philosophical rumination. Sidney, it's just before noon. On the first day of our official engagement. What will the next two months be like?”

Sid stared at his fiancé. Then he said, “Excuse me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Into the bathroom. If you're not going to scream, I will.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

  
“There is going to be a parade.”

“I repeat: ugh.”

“You said that about the media plan, not the parade.”

“Forgive me. How about double ugh?”

“Jen does have a media plan. She said she's never gotten so many requests in so short a time.”

“Ugh to the nth power.”

Sid laughed.

“Exactly how many of these interviews involve me?”

“I don't know. Exactly,” Sid added hurriedly, so that it wouldn't be an outright lie. “She wants to meet with us.”

“All right. When?”

“As soon as we can get there.”

“You're . . . all right, you're obviously _not_ kidding, so I'll save my breath. Well, let me go shower then.”

“Uh, before you go . . . there's something else we should talk about.”

Andrew gazed levelly at Sid. “That tone of trepidation suggests that you suspect I'm not going to like hearing what you're about to tell me.”

“Actually, Sasha, you're wrong.”

“Really?”

“Yup. That tone you detect indicates that I _know_ you're not going to like hearing what I'm about to tell you.”

“'Let joy be unconfined,' as somebody once said. Lord Byron, I think. Some British poet, anyway. All right, let me have it.”

“She's gotten about two dozen requests for a television interview with the two of us.”

Andrew's jaw dropped. “What? That's . . . that's insane!” He started to pace. “Sidney, you came out months ago. Why on earth is there such a fuss _now_? Is it because you just won the Cup?”

“That . . . might be part of it.”

Narrowing his eyes, Andrew asked, in a scrupulously polite voice, “And do you have any ideas about what the other part—or, as I am beginning to suspect strongly, _parts_ —might be?”

Sid squirmed. “Well, yes.”

“Would you care to inform me what those things are?”

“Not in the slightest, actually. But I will anyway.”

“An excellent—and exceedingly wise—response, _mon oie._ Out with it.”

“Well,” Sid began, steeling himself, “a lot of it is because of Sasha. Who Sasha is, I mean. Now that everybody knows who you are, there's . . . uh, renewed interest.”

“Well, of course there is. And we both knew that was likely to happen; in fact, Jen warned us at least three times to expect it. That still doesn't explain this level of 'interest.'”

“You're not giving yourself enough credit, Andrew.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“Even if you were just, I don't know, a regular person, there would still be a frenzy now. Because there's a face to the fiancé of the first gay NHL player. But add in the fact that you're famous—in your own right, I mean—and that magnifies things. A lot.”

“That's true. And I even anticipated that—to a degree, anyway. While you were on the phone I read an e-mail update from Bradley, and in addition to multiple requests for confirmation, he's received, and I quote, 'a fair number' of queries about a possible interview. I hardly think, however, that 'a fair number' means 'at least two dozen.' Let's face it: I'm not exactly famous in the grand scheme of things—especially in the sports world.”

“Actually, you kind of are.” He picked up his phone and pretended it was a microphone: “'Please welcome the hockey tenor himself!'”

“Oh, spare me.”

“I would if I could. But face it, Andrew: you're a lot more famous than you think. Or, actually, a lot more famous than you seem to want to believe. You're a certified star in the opera world. You've won three Grammy awards. The broadcast of your concert, which raised almost three million dollars for hockey charities, just got nominated for an Emmy. You're the only child of two of the most successful people in this country. How is that not famous? So of course the attention is insane: you're you, and I'm me.”

Throwing up his hands, Andrew said, “All right. Fine. I accept your argument. To a point. But that still doesn't explain two dozen television interviews. Or why they want both of us.”

Sid winced.

“Sidney.” Just his name.

“Yes?”

“I'm waiting.”

Sid strategized frantically. “Do you remember that episode of _Bewitched—_ it's with the second Darrin—where Samantha has to tell him something she really doesn't want to?”

“That could be any number of episodes. Go on.”

“Well, in this case, I'm Sam and you're Darrin.”

“I'm not exactly in the mood for role-playing, but fine. Get to the point.”

“So, I'm just going to begin by telling you what she told him.”

“Which is?”

“'Darrin: I love you very, very much.'”

Andrew's lips twitched. Which was, Sid thought inanely, incredibly appropriate. And then Andrew started laughing.

“All right, Sidney. Message received. Just tell me what it is. To quote from _my_ favorite television show of all time—which, if you don't already know, is _Babylon 5_ : 'Mr. Garibaldi: whatever it is, it can't be that bad!'”

“It maybe kind of is. But okay. You remember when I came out.”

“Vividly.”

“It was when you were in the hospital.”

“That's correct.”

“And then they had to rush you into surgery.”

“I remember that too.”

“So, then I had to come back here. And the media was insane. But Jen and I—well, mostly Jen—came up with a plan for dealing with all of it. 'Cause I wasn't exactly up for a full-scale assault just then. I was worried sick about you!”

“I know you were. And I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize. But anyway. So: I had already told Jen—this was while you were in surgery—that I wouldn't answer any questions about you. And she didn't know if that would fly, but we thought if we emphasized your health issues, it might work.”

“And it did. Didn't it?”

“Uh, a little. At first. But we knew it wouldn't last. So, a plan was made to, uh, kind of guarantee things.”

“Sidney.”

“Andrew?”

“You have just employed the grammatical construction known as the agentless passive voice. Possibly for the first time since I have known you. Now, since I am quite cognizant of the fact that you usually have very little trouble with the first person pronoun, please recast that sentence.”

“'As you wish.'” Sid wished that didn't sound so much like a question.

Andrew was unmoved. “I do wish. I'm also waiting.”

“Okay. I really couldn't deal with anything else right then. 'Cause in addition to my anxiety about you, I had to play hockey. And unfortunately, that meant facing some really kind of hostile crowds. And you know how I hate dealing with reporters anyway. So, with Jen's help—and Pat, my agent's help, too—I kind of . . . made a deal with them.”

“Said deal being?”

“I told them that they could ask me anything they wanted about hockey, of course. But since I wouldn't answer anything about you while you were so sick, that kind of meant I couldn't really talk about the gay thing much at all. So, I said that I would greatly appreciate it if we could hold off on discussing the gay thing until you were better.”

“And they agreed to that?” Andrew asked incredulously.

“They did. Because I . . . kind of . . . sweetened the kitty. A little. Okay, a lot.”

“ _Now_ we're getting somewhere. What did you promise them?”

Gathering his courage, Sid said, “I said that if they would . . . uh, do me the courtesy of deferring things, and do _you_ the courtesy of not intruding while you were sick, then, later on, when you were better . . .”

“Yes?”

“ _We_ would give them the opportunity to ask us anything they want. In depth. Kind of . . . no holds barred.”

_“What!_ ” The word seemed to explode out of Andrew's mouth. So forcefully that he immediately began coughing. Or . . . hacking, actually, Sid thought with a tiny corner of his brain as he ran to the bathroom to get him some water.

Andrew waved the glass away until the spasms subsided. Wheezing, he drank, one swallow at a time, and then handed it back.

“More,” he rasped.

“Are you all right?” Sid asked anxiously, after Andrew had drained the glass again.

“I honestly don't know.” He stood up, a little unsteadily, and walked into the bathroom, where he gargled. For a long time. While Sid hovered in the doorway.

After spitting one last time, Andrew washed his face and hands, then went and slumped down on the bed.

“Good God,” he said.

“Andrew,” Sid began—only to snap his mouth shut when Andrew shook his head.

“Please don't say anything right now, Sidney; I need to recoup. And think for a minute or two. Is that all right?”

“Of course.” Sid sat down next to him, and then, since he really wanted to, and also because he knew _he_ really needed it, he took Andrew's hand. And breathed a sigh of relief when Andrew squeezed his in return.

After a short time, Andrew sighed. And cleared his throat.

“All right, Sidney. Let's be economical about this. How about we each ask each other one question. And then, depending on what those questions are, and whether or not we like the answers, we take it from there. Does that sound like a good plan?”

“I . . . guess. No, it does. It's not what I expected, for sure. But then again: you always manage to surprise me.”

“The feeling is entirely mutual,” Andrew said somewhat dryly. “Now then. You go first.”

Sid almost didn't have to think. “Are you mad at me?” he blurted out.

Andrew smiled at him. “No, _mon oie_ , I am not mad at you.”

“Really?”

“I'm not in the habit of lying to people, Sidney, least of all you,” Andrew said, a little tartly.

“For the record, that wasn't a 'are you telling me the truth?' really. It was a 'are you sure?' really.”

“Ah. Thanks very much for the clarification. And yes, I'm sure. I will confess that if your question had been a different one, I might have been. But as it happens, I'm not.”

“Well, good. Okay, what's your question?”

Andrew didn't hesitate at all. “Why didn't you tell me about this before?”

Sid thought about how to respond. Andrew sat, waiting patiently. Finally, Sid opened his mouth.

“I am absolutely, positively not trying to hedge here. But . . . there's no single answer to your question. No simple answer, either.” That truth had just popped into his head. “But if you don't mind a kind of confused answer?”

Andrew shook his head.

“In that case . . . I guess you could say that the answer is in two parts. There's the 'me' part and the 'you' part. And there's probably . . . no, there's definitely some overlap.” He paused. “Feel free to uncork your laugh any time you want.”

Andrew did laugh then. A little. “Why don't you stop trying to categorize your answer and simply give it?”

“Because I have OCD.”

That earned him an eyebrow. A concerned eyebrow, if he was any judge.

“Your OCD affects something like this? You've never mentioned that before.”

“Sasha, my OCD affects so much more of my life than I thought before I started seeing Tolliver, it's almost unbelievable. But anyway: I'll try.

“The 'you' part is maybe easier. I didn't want to burden you with it before I had to. You've had a lot to deal with, these last few months. And yes, I'm including me on that list.” Anticipating Andrew, he raised his hand. “It's still my turn.”

Andrew closed his mouth. He also folded his hands and donned an eager expression that made Sid laugh.

“You look like a bird waiting for its mother to feed it.”

Andrew trilled. And then, when Sid had stopped snickering, motioned for him to continue.

“As for the 'me' part—well, the 'me' part that isn't the 'me' in the 'you' part—that's maybe a little more complicated. And maybe more than a little complicated to explain. See, Andrew: I love you more than anyone or anything else in this world. There is _nothing_ I want more than to share the rest of my life with you. The thing is: sharing my life with you also means you sharing your life with me, so as long as I'm playing—and, if I'm being honest and believe me, I'm trying to be, even after I retire—you have to put up with everything that goes along with hockey.

“Now, before you start objecting, I know I have to do my share of sharing. And yes, I know that sounds stupid, but I'm on a roll here. As we just got finished discussing, you're you and I'm me. But . . . opera operates—fuck my life, seriously—on a completely different plane of reality than professional sports. You know, my dad asked me something downstairs. Do you know how much money I make a year?”

“I don't. Not exactly, anyway. I know it's a lot.”

“It is. How come you've never asked me?”

Without a second's hesitation, Andrew said, “Because it's not important. Well, it's important, but it's not as important as a lot of other things. Especially to me. I don't have to worry about money, Sidney. And unless the entire global economy completely tanks, I'll never have to. So that gives me the luxury of being able to focus on what _is_ important to me. How much money you make isn't on that list. _You_ , however, are at the top of it. And we seem to be digressing, so forgive me if I attempt to get us back on track. Would I be correct in assuming that the list of things that comprise 'everything that goes along with hockey' includes these television interviews?”

“You would be. And getting us even more back on track: I love you so much that sometimes I lie awake at night wondering if asking you to put up with all of that is fair to you. Because, unless I'm wrong, people don't generally ask the people they love to submit to torture.”

With a completely straight face, Andrew said, “They do if that's their kink.”

Sid grimaced. “It's certainly not mine.”

“Nor is it mine. I've never understood it, nor am I interested enough to try to understand it. Look, Sidney: a minute ago you used the word 'share' quite a few times. We both want to share the rest of our lives with each other. That means sharing both the good and the bad things. When you listened to the broadcast from Chicago, or went to see me at the Met, you shared some of my successes. You also shared the rigors of my illness, and the . . . let's say, _considerable_ anxieties I underwent during my period of silence.

“When I decided to break that silence by singing the anthem yesterday (dear God, was it only yesterday?), I did it for any number of reasons, but chief among them was the fact that I wanted that moment to be shared. I don't know that I would have articulated it quite that way before this conversation, but I know that it's true. I knew you would love it if I sang to you, because I know how much you like to see me on your ice. And I also knew that if I failed—if my voice gave out, or didn't work at all—that you would share my pain. As I would share your pain, if the Pens had lost. And as I got . . . no, _get_ . . . to share the joy of your win. There's a reason—at least, I assume there is—why those traditional wedding vows include the phrase 'in good times and in bad.'”

“So . . . you're saying you won't mind the media scrutiny?”

“I most certainly am _not_ saying that; I will probably mind every moment of it. What I _am_ saying is that I am willing to do it because it is a requirement of the life we want to share together. After all, Sidney,” and Andrew smiled tenderly, oh, so tenderly at Sid, “you came out because you wanted to share your love for me with the world. I rather look forward to returning the favor.”

**********

When Sid got out of the shower, Andrew was standing at the sink shaving. He was also frowning.

“Is something wrong?”

“Not really. It's just that . . . that thing Dad threw at me landed right on the spot where my cheekbone cracked last year. What are the odds of that happening, I wonder? It's already bruising, and it hurts.”

“Well, I'm sorry it hurts. And I have no idea what the odds would be. Because Sasha, there's no way that was accidental; your dad intended it to hit there.”

“Don't be absurd, Sidney; Dad didn't even hesitate, or take the time to aim. He just hurled that thing.”

“You're wrong. Don't forget: your dad is a wicked good pool player. And furthermore: this is a man who carries a protractor around with him.”

Andrew, who had opened his mouth to continue arguing, closed it slowly. Sid smiled in satisfaction; he knew the protractor would clinch things.

**********

As they walked down the stairs, Daniel popped into the hall.

“Are you two going out?”

Andrew ignored the question; “Were you lurking?”

“Certainly not,” Daniel said, with a huff.

“That means 'yes,'” Andrew informed Sid. Turning back, he told his father, “Sidney has a meeting at Consol. With Jen. And I have to attend. Apparently, there's some interest in having the two of us do some interviews together.”

Sid snorted. “Now _there's_ an understatement.”

“Well, you certainly can't neglect your responsibilities. But. . . .”

Andrew broke in. “Don't worry, Dad; we haven't forgotten about the photographer. You said late afternoon, right?”

Daniel nodded. “Four or so.”

“We'll be back in plenty of time, Daniel.”

The door opened, and Tommy and his parents came in. Without Saad, Sid noted. He also noted that Tommy looked. . . .

“Are you okay?”

His mother answered for him. “He and Brandon got a lot of attention. And not all of it was good.”

“I'm sorry, Tommy,” Andrew said.

“Some of the things were just . . . insane,” Tommy said. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I maybe do,” Sid retorted.

“I doubt it, Sid. Seriously.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Well, the weirdest thing was when this gay couple—I mean, obviously, totally gay, both of them were wearing those rainbow Pens caps—congratulated me. So of course I thanked them. And then one of them said, 'It's too bad you're a traitor.' And I just kind of went, 'Huh?' And the other guy, like, _sniffed_. And then he said, 'You have to date a _Hawk_?'”

Everybody started laughing.

“And then Bran (and I am seriously rethinking that whole thing, 'cause that guy does _not_ know when to keep his mouth shut) goes, 'Could be worse. He could be dating a Flyer.' Can you believe that?”

“Well, yeah,” Sid said. “Of course that would be worse.”

“Oh, Christ!”

**********

The meeting with Jen started off pretty well, Sid thought. Jen had obviously expected a lot more resistance from Andrew, because she couldn't quite manage to mask her look of astonishment when he made his willingness pretty plain.

“I will do whatever interviews you deem important, Jen, as long as they don't interfere with my medical appointments or any activities related to my career. As I told Sidney earlier today, I imagine I'm going to have to spend a considerable amount of time with my vocal coach, but I don't have any engagements for a while, so I'm prepared to devote a block of time right now to helping Sidney fulfill his media responsibilities.”

She agreed unhesitatingly with his stipulations. And then pulled out her list. Which was really long. And while Andrew had fewer objections than Sid, he did have some.

“It makes no sense for me to be included in any purely sports-oriented features,” he declared. “What am I going to do: betray my ignorance of every professional sports organization in creation? Excluding the NHL, of course. Where I am ignorant of a mere 90 percent?”

Still, he agreed to a couple of those, too. Once Jen came up with the idea of having them take place at Sid's house, so Andrew could, essentially, be on call. Sid didn't want any reporters in his house—at all—but decided it was a fair compromise.

When the subject of the television appearances came up, Sid asked, and if his tone was a little plaintive, he thought he had good reason, if there was any way they could maybe do a couple of really big ones, instead of all of the small ones. Andrew seemed to approve of that idea, which was a bonus. Jen said she'd see what she could arrange, and Sid even managed to ignore the doubtful tone in her voice.

It all went so smoothly that Sid almost stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. Almost.

“The team photographer got some great shots right after the game,” she told them, putting down her tablet. “I love the sweater the guys made for you, Andrew. Sid, whose idea was that?”

“I don't know,” Sid admitted; “it was a surprise to me too.”

“Ask Tommy,” Andrew advised.

Jen laughed. “I will. He's my next customer.”

Sid brightened. “Maybe you could get him to do some of my interviews! He made the game winner, after all.”

“The look Jen is giving you could probably best be captioned as 'Yeah, right,'” Andrew told him.

“It was worth a try,” Sid muttered, slumping back in his seat.

“Anyway: will you be wearing your sweater to the parade, Andrew? Or one of Sid's?”

“If I were inclined to wear either of them,” Andrew said after a few seconds, “which, for the record, I am not, it would be Sidney's.”

“Oh. Well, that's fine; I just wondered.”

“Am I on duty for the parade?” Andrew inquired. Courteously.

Jen hesitated. “I wouldn't put it that way, Andrew: but your absence would definitely be noticed. Oh, and please tell your parents that if they're still in town, they're more than welcome to join you and the other wi-” She broke off abruptly.

“WiFi users?” Andrew suggested helpfully; “I'm almost positive you weren't going to say winos.”

“I was _going_ to say 'wives and families,' as you well know, and I'm sorry. Really, Andrew. And Sid. I apologize for misspeaking.”

“It's okay, Jen,” Andrew said, with a warm smile. “Truly. I realize that this is new for everybody. It's hard to break established patterns of speaking.”

“If it's any consolation, Andrew,” Sid said, “a lot of the chirps I got called me the wife. Or the little woman.”

“Really? That's appalling. There's absolutely nothing womanly about you, and _certainly_ nothing little. At all.” His voice . . . _suggested_. “I'll have to make a point of saying so in every interview.”

Jen turned stark white.

“He's kidding, Jen,” Sid reassured her before she passed out. “Uh, aren't you?”

“Of course I'm kidding! I'm sorry, Jen: I was just trying out my sense of humor, to make sure it was still intact.”

“It's a little hard to tell with you sometimes, Andrew,” Jen said.

Sid rolled his eyes. “Now _there's_ an understatement.”

“Why, thank you, Sidney; you know how I like to keep you guessing. But seriously, Jen: you should know that I wouldn't say anything truly outrageous; I have, after all, been doing interviews for years. But are there any specific guidelines you would like me to observe?”

She thought for a second. “Generally, I tell the guys that the most important rule is not to say anything they wouldn't say to their mothers.”

“Well, we're doomed,” Sid said in his best monotone. Andrew smirked at him.

When she'd stopped laughing, Jen said, “Andrew, just be yourself.”

“Now we're fucked,” Sid intoned.

“Stop it, Sid!” They were all laughing now.

“Seriously, Andrew: just be yourself. And help Sid be himself. Keep him relaxed. It's amazing how much better he's done with the press since he came out—and I'll bet a dime that every single interviewer will want to talk about that. In fact, let me say this: if the two of you can emphasize . . . well, that it's not the coming out that's bad, it's the staying in . . . then, well, maybe the two of you will make a real difference.”

She looked at her watch. “I'm sorry; we need to wrap this up soon; I have _another_ call with the Hawks scheduled. I don't envy Brandon one little bit; if I didn't want to skin him alive for what he unleashed, I'd feel sorry for him.”

“Why? I mean, what specifically, Jen? I haven't heard anything about that. Of course,” Sid admitted, “I haven't been looking. Have you, Andrew?”

“I've been a little preoccupied,” Andrew said dryly. “You know, with the wedding planner from hell. AKA my father.”

“Oh, just the fact that there are now three openly gay players in the NHL, and two of them are on the same team. You would not believe the homophobic comments we're fielding. Some of the message boards are ugly.”

“I probably would believe it,” Sid said, thinking about some of the things said to him on the ice.

“I'm truly sorry, Jen,” Andrew said. “If there's anything we can do, or help with—any specific things you want us to emphasize to the media—let us know.”

“I will. Thanks, guys.” She consulted her list. “Oh, one last topic. Sid, I assume you're going to the awards?”

Sid nodded.

“Are you, Andrew?”

“I hadn't even thought about it. They're soon, aren't they?”

“Next week.”

“Do you want me to go with you, Sidney? Or, since I already know the answer to that question, do you want me to go with Sidney, Jen?”

“It might be a good thing. But that really isn't why I brought it up. Andrew, would you be willing to sing something? Not at the ceremony itself, but at the dinner the night before?”

Andrew blinked. “Of course. Assuming that my doctors don't impose another vow of silence on me. What would you like me to sing? And . . . why?”

“Well, the what would be up to you. Something suitable for honoring this year's winners.”

Sid smiled happily. As did Andrew. Although his smile might be more fond than happy. And it was directed right at Sid, which made him even happier.

“As for the why: since the Pens won the Cup, the powers-that-be thought that having you sing might be a nice touch.” She laughed a little. “The entire PR machine of the NHL is being mobilized.”

“I imagine it is,” Andrew said, narrowing his eyes. “And may I ask who suggested this particular . . . stratagem?”

Jen picked up a piece of paper. “Here's the contact information; it's someone in Bettman's office.”

“I see.” Andrew accepted the note and scanned it; Sid was surprised it didn't freeze immediately. “Do you have any idea why this . . . inquiry was made through you, Jen? It's a trifle irregular; generally, all requests to engage my services go through my agent.”

Jen darted a quick glance at Sid. Finding nothing helpful there (Sid was too busy wishing he was an actual penguin, since then he might survive the suddenly-subarctic temperature in the room), she said, hesitantly, “I don't really know. They knew you were here, so . . . expediency?”

“Ah. Well. I certainly don't expect you to be able to explain how the brains of the NHL upper management work. That is, of course, assuming they possess any. It would, I estimate, take approximately ten seconds to Google my name and find my official website. I must remember to inform them that for future reference, my agent's name and contact information are on the first page.”

He made a crease in the piece of paper as if he were slitting a throat. “I'll pass this on to Bradley. And don't worry, Jen: I'll be sure to instruct him to offer the NHL the friends and family discount. I seldom charge much for such a brief appearance; $15,000—plus my travel costs, of course—ought to cover it. However, if they want more than a single song, we'll have to renegotiate.”

“If I've offended you, Andrew, then I'm really sorry. . . .”

Andrew's posture stiffened even more (which Sid didn't think was possible), and then, improbably, his shoulders slumped and he relaxed.

“No, Jen. _You_ didn't offend me. At all. The only thing you did was pass on this . . . offer. You don't deserve to have to deal with my choler, and I apologize.”

“Sasha,” Sid said firmly, “tell us why you're upset. Both of us. It's important; I want to know, and Jen needs to know. So she can try and make sure it doesn't happen again. Right, Jen?”

Jen nodded. “Please, Andrew.”

Andrew hesitated. Then. . . .

Global warming was a real thing, judging from how quickly Andrew turned molten in rage.

“You want to know what infuriates me the most? It's that they went through you, Jen.” He stood up and paced. “It's as if some pompous ass at headquarters said, 'Hey, Crosby's wife sings, don't he? Call up Crosby's secretary, and get her to arrange something. Crosby just won the Cup, so we'll throw him a bone, heh, heh, and maybe do something about this little PR problem those fucking faggots have caused!'”

He kicked the wastebasket next to the desk, and whirled around. “I am not an organ grinder's monkey, who performs at the twitch of a leash. Nor am I a trained seal, happy to be rewarded with a few fish! There are at most three people alive today who can do what I do, and in some ways, I'm better. You don't _treat_ people this casually! Anybody at all, but particularly artists of my caliber! The Pittsburgh Opera waited four years for me to appear with them, and they were happy to do so! And lucky that I did!

“It was one thing when I thought Mario had thought of the idea; for him, I'd do it gladly! I certainly wouldn't expect him to call Bradley, because Mario and I have a relationship. I don't have a relationship with Gary Bettman. I've met the man twice. He barely acknowledged me last night, and as for the first time we met, does he think for one minute I've forgotten that he referred to my hockey concert as 'very pleasant entertainment?' I assure you, I have not! I thought it was ridiculous when I was nominated, but now I really hope I win that Emmy, because if I do, I'm going to take a little trip to his office and ram it down his throat!”

He choked then, and started coughing.

“Could you get him some water?” Sid asked Jen quietly. She walked quickly out of the room, and Sid put his arms around Andrew and held him 'til the paroxysms lessened.

“Thanks, Jen.” Sid took the bottle, and after easing Andrew back in his chair, held it while Andrew swallowed. Just as he had earlier, Andrew drank one mouthful at a time, swallowing each completely before taking the next.

When the bottle was empty, Sid dropped it on the floor, took Andrew's hands in his own, and watched as he stared dully into space for a minute or so. Finally, he roused himself.

“We should go,” he said, and his voice was hoarse; “Jen has her call to make.”

“Don't be silly, Andrew,” Jen said; “I'll just use the conference room. Please, stay here as long as you like.”

“Thanks, Jen.”

“Yes, thank you. And I'm sorry.”

“Don't give it another thought, Andrew,” Jen said firmly. “I mean that. You need to take care of yourself. Make sure he does, Sid.”

“I intend to,” Sid said, “starting right now.”

He waited until Jen had gathered her things and left the room. He stood up, walked over to the door, and locked it. He sat down again and took out his phone. And hit speed dial eight.

“Hi, Daniel. Listen: things just got kind of complicated here at Consol. We're going to be a little late. Could you let the photographer know? I'm real sorry, but this is . . . necessary. I'm sure we'll be there by six. Okay? Thanks, Daniel.”

He ended the call. “It's only a little reprieve, but I think we need it.”

“Thanks, Sidney.”

“Don't thank me yet. Take out your phone, Sasha, and call your doctors. Tell them you need to see them tomorrow. As early in the day as possible. If we have to, we'll fly to Boston tonight.”

It was, perhaps, a measure of how much Andrew's anxiety matched Sid's own that he didn't even protest. Instead, he reached up and pressed his palm to Sid's cheek briefly, before complying.

“8:30 tomorrow morning,” he announced when he was finished. “I don't know if that means traveling tonight or tomorrow morning. Let me call Simon.”

That call only took about a minute, but it ended with Andrew instructing Simon to call Sid with the information.

“Why my phone?”

“Because if Simon works with his customary efficiency, I'll still be on mine.” He punched in another number from memory.

“Hi, Roberta; it's Andrew Copley. Oh. Oh, thank you. Thanks very much. What? No, I didn't know. . . . Roberta, please don't hold that against me; I had nothing to do with the fact that the Pens beat the Bruins in four games.”

“Yes, you did,” Sid mouthed at Andrew. Which earned him an eye roll and a tiny flash of a grin that lightened his heart. A little.

“Listen: as you can probably imagine, my life has been rather stressful lately, and I've come to the realization that I need to see Dr. Bennett. As soon as possible, and if I'm being completely honest, I should have done it three months ago, like my fiancé wanted me to. Does she have any openings tomorrow? I have another appointment at Mass General at 8:30, so any time after, say, ten. Really? That sounds perfect. Thanks a lot, Roberta; I'll see you tomorrow at eleven. Bye.”

There was a brief silence.

“I guess you're more efficient than Simon today.”

As if to rebuke him, Sid's phone buzzed.

**********

There was another silence after Sid ended the call. Which, somewhat uncharacteristically, he broke.

“Dr. Bennett is your therapist?”

“She is.”

Sid nodded. Then he leaned over and kissed Andrew lightly. “Thanks for making that appointment. Well, both appointments, really, but especially that one.”

“You're welcome.”

“You need to talk to her.”

“I know, I know. You're right. Now, and you _were_ right in March.” He sighed. “As Dr. Bennett has told me at least a hundred times, self-sufficiency, like many other so-called virtues, can easily turn lethal if left unchecked. Especially if, as in this case, it's being used as an avoidance technique.” He paused. “No, that's not what I mean. I mean . . . oh, I suppose I mean as an aid to denial. Or enabler, maybe; I'm not exactly thinking clearly.”

“You have a bunch of good reasons. And at the risk of sounding really competitive: when it comes to being in denial, Andrew, you're a piker compared to me.”

Andrew laughed a little and smiled at Sid. And Sid's heart lightened a little more when he saw the crinkles. And that made him a little bolder.

“So. Are we going to talk about it?”

Ordinarily, he'd expect an eye roll. Or a grammar lesson about vague references. No, referents. Some kind of diversion.

What he got was a very serious look.

“You already know, don't you?”

“I think so. At least, I know you think there's something wrong with your voice.”

“It's damaged.” The words sank heavily between them.

“No, it's not,” Sid said definitely. “And before you start telling me that you know your voice better than I do, let me tell you that of course I know that. But . . . I don't think _you_ know how many hours I've spent listening to your voice on my player. And maybe I can tell better than you, because . . . well, because you're so afraid that something's wrong that you're magnifying things. You're always an alarmist when it comes to your body, Andrew: you were convinced that blackhead you got was bubonic plague. Your voice is not damaged.”

“It's not the same as it was.”

“That, I can maybe agree with,” Sid said. “A little, anyway. Last night, your high notes sounded just like they always did. And that ornament you did at the end? As smooth as ever. But . . . there did seem to be a little—and let me stress that word, _little_ —difference in the really low notes. Right?”

Andrew nodded. “The tone was darker. Definitely. And I was determined not to jump to conclusions. But . . . well, it was easier to distract myself last night.”

“I'm familiar with that technique,” Sid said dryly; “although, a championship game seven—and a win—probably work better than some of the things I've tried over the years. For a while, anyway. Hey, how did you know I knew? Although, maybe a better word is 'suspected.'”

“At home, when I was talking about deciding to sing the anthem, I said something about my voice failing; just for an instant, you got a . . . I suppose the best word would be guarded . . . a guarded look on your face. Which is unusual when it's just the two of us.”

Sid nodded, accepting that.

Shaking his head, Andrew went on, “It amazes me that you noticed yesterday. Never again say to me that you aren't observant: there were really only two spots in the anthem that were affected, and even _I_ wasn't certain until the second time.”

“I can be observant. When it's important. Until I met you, that meant hockey. It's different, now. Although I don't know if observant is even the right word; it's more like . . . well, I know how your voice makes me feel inside. And it was really subtle. In the interests of complete honesty, let me tell you that I didn't really put it all together until today.”

“What happened today?”

“It's more like what didn't happen today. At the risk of sounding like an idiot: I had a bet with myself. About how long it would take you to sit down at the piano and start exercising.” He bumped shoulders. “Sasha, I haven't lost a bet about you that badly in at least six months!”

Enjoying the little ripples of laughter, he stood up. “Give me a hug?”

“Of course.”

They stood there for a while in silence, until Sid said, striving to keep his face straight, “Sasha, are you interested in full disclosure right now?”

“If you're interested in disclosing.”

“I kind of am. It wasn't only the fact that you didn't even touch the piano. You just weren't acting like yourself. In fact, you were acting so different, it was almost unbelievable.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. How many eruptions have I had today? I've lost count. Let me apologize to you, Sidney. . . .”

Sid interrupted him. “No, that's not what I mean. Well, okay: anybody who knows you could tell you're wound up. And we should maybe talk some about that. But Andrew, let's face it: you do have a temper, and when it's out of control, you get physical. You didn't get physical today—except for that wastebasket. Oh, and maybe Saad. A little. And who cares about that. No, I was thinking about something else.”

“I can't imagine what. Tell me.”

“It was when you had the vodka this morning.”

Flushing a little, Andrew said, “I know it was early. But don't forget: everybody else was drinking too!”

“It's not that,” Sid said, finally giving in to his laughter; “Andrew: you drank straight from the bottle! I mean, come on! You?”

**********

“What shall we do with this unexpected free time?”

Sid considered. “I think you need to work off some of your anxiety.”

“I'm not going home until we have to. Shall we get a hotel room?”

Laughing, Sid gave Andrew a quick kiss. “Hold that thought. Let's go shoot some pucks; I think we both could use the therapy.” He winced a little after he said the last word, but Andrew didn't seem to react. Negatively, any way.

“I probably could. All right. I'll have to get my skates; they're still in the visitor's locker room. I hope Mario hasn't canceled my key card yet. But first, let me just. . . .” He walked across the room and righted the wastebasket, redepositing the few things that had flown out of it. “I want to apologize to Jen again. I could leave a note, I suppose, but . . . no, I need to do it in person. Maybe after we skate.”

Knowing it was futile, Sid said, “You don't have to. She understands. And you really weren't that bad.”

“Says you.”

“I does.” He smirked at the face Andrew made. “Come on, Sasha; the ice is waiting.” He unlocked the door and ushered Andrew out.

As they walked down the hall, Sid remarked, “I have to tell you something: I'm kind of glad you said those things to Jen.”

Andrew stopped short and stared at him. “What?”

“No, seriously. For more than one reason, actually.”

“Do tell.”

“I will.” They resumed walking and Sid explained. “First of all, you were right. You're as much as a professional as I am. And nobody would ever try to get me to do something—well, something other than publicity—by calling her. They'd call Pat.” He paused to consider. “I guess there's a chance that, depending on who it was, and if it was for charity, they might call here first. But that would just be an appearance; if it involved me _doing_ anything, no way. And the NHL is not a charity.”

Andrew snorted. Loudly. “What's your other reason? Or reasons?”

Grinning, Sid said, “I have to take back something I said to you earlier. You know _exactly_ how famous you are. And how good. Sometimes I think you're too modest about your talent, Sasha; it's great to hear you toot your own horn.”

“I wouldn't describe my diatribe that way at all, Sidney; if anything, it involved an entire orchestra. Not to mention a full chorus.”

They both laughed.

Getting on the elevator, Andrew asked, “And what did you think of my scenario of what motivated the call in the first place?”

Sid rolled his eyes. “I have a request to make. Please, Sasha, never again say 'heh heh' in front of me—especially not in that voice. It was truly horrifying.” He shuddered for effect. And then he got serious.

“If I had to bet on it, I'd say the odds are in your favor. I can't imagine they're happy about having to deal with this. And make no mistake: they're going to have to. Seriously, now. First of all, because it's not just me. Second of all, because the Pens won, and the whole world knows that two of the three forwards on the ice when we won are gay. And on a side note, not that I would say this to anybody but you, but I'm sorry, Sasha, I don't consider Geno completely straight anymore. But whatever. Anyway: they have to deal with it. And not just the lip service they used when I came out. It's much bigger than that now. And it's going to get a lot bigger before long.” He waited for Andrew to exit.

“You mean, our impeding media blitz?”

“That and more.”

“What else?”

“I've been considering . . . no, I've pretty much decided on . . . making a fuss.”

“About?”

“About how the linemen in certain parts of this country always managed not to hear the really horrible things that were said to me since I came out. The fucking NHL has rules, and those fucktards need to enforce them. All of the time. Selective deafness shouldn't be allowed, and while we're on the subject, neither should personal interpretations of exactly what the word 'high' means in 'high sticking.'”

“You're absolutely right, Sidney, and I'm appalled. I'm also more than a little irked with you: why didn't you tell me any of this before? I suspected things weren't as rosy as you were painting them, but you clearly didn't want to talk about it, so I respected that. Now I'm sorry I did.”

“Well, I knew I wasn't going to do anything about it then, so what was the point? Besides, you had a lot to deal with yourself.”

“'A burden shared is a burden eased, Sidney.' To reuse one of the words of the day.”

“Well, I guess that's true. But I meant what I said. And also, there was nothing you could have done. You didn't start going to away games until the postseason, and none of those teams did stuff like that. And even if they did: you know I love you, Andrew, and you also know how capable I think you are, but there was no way you could've had a few words with every shithead I played against. Now, go get your skates; I'll wait here. You know I can't go near the visitor's area.”

“You could, you know. Earn some brownie points with Tolliver.”

“As much as I'm afraid I'm going to need them, I'm not ready for that yet.”

**********

The second Andrew got back, he said, “I'm not going to ask you any questions about your plans, Sidney, because I strongly suspect this is a subject that cries out for plausible deniability. However: do you know yet how you're going to make your fuss?”

“I thought I'd have Pat arrange a meeting.”

Smiling at him, Andrew said, “You are such a white knight, _mon oie_.” He stole a quick kiss. “However, you will, I hope, forgive me for saying that there are much better—and more efficient—ways of causing your fuss.”

“You know I will. What are they?”

“Well, aside from denying them the psychological advantage they would get by your having to come to them to air your grievances: why waste your time with them at all? Sidney, if we're going to have to bare our souls to the media, let's reap some benefits and have the media do it for you. A subtle hint or innuendo is all it will take: any reporter worth her or his salt will run with it. And every interviewer you face after that will revisit the topic: probably after having done some research. The NHL won't possibly be able to hide behind press releases and soundbites then.”

Sid thought this through for a bit. “You could be . . . no, you're probably right. But there's one problem . . . well, one problem I can think of right now. I've been basically denying to reporters that anything like this has been going on; I don't want to be accused of lying. Plus, there's the timing: I just won the Cup; I don't want to come across as . . . well, mean-spirited.”

Andrew started laughing. “Oh, Sidney: you couldn't. But I agree that the timing is important. It might make sense not to start this little endeavor until after your parade, or better, after the awards. A lull before the storm, if you will. And as for your other point? It's quite simple, really: _I_ will be the one to bring it up. And _you_ will attempt to make it go away. See?”

After a second or two, Sid did, in fact, see. “Sasha, you are brilliant!”

“And you're partial. But thank you. No, let me: while I still have the means.” He pulled out his key card and opened the locker room door.

While they were changing, Sid said, “You know, while you were getting your skates, I was . . . kind of replaying the end of our meeting with Jen, and I remembered something.”

“What did you remember? Or do I even want to know?”

“I think you do. Remember last year, that week we spent together in New York? After the Devils game, we all went out.”

“I do remember. And?”

“That was the night you told us the story of _Kaner di Lammermoor_.”

Chuckling, Andrew said, “I certainly remember _that_!”

“Well, upstairs, you acted just like Kaner.”

“I did?” Andrew thought for a second or two. “I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific.”

“It was in Act Two. I think. You said Kaner was freezing and burning at the same time. That's just what you did in the meeting; you went from absolute zero to super-nova in, like, three seconds. It was great!”

Andrew burst out laughing. “Oh Sidney,” he said eventually, wiping his eyes, “as I said only moments ago, you're partial. But I love you for it. Almost as much as I love you for being you.” He tugged Sid in for a kiss.

“Mmmm. And I love you. Every part of you. Every you, too. I can't wait until we're married!”

“Neither can I. It will be wonderful, being married to you. Assuming we both survive until after the ceremony.”

“This is true. Okay, Sasha: let's go enjoy this little time off. I have a feeling we won't get much more of it for a while.”

“I suspect you're right. Well, it will be a lovely memory. To sustain us. . . .” He broke off.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Not at all. Just an idle thought. Come on: let's go murder some pucks.”

**********

Puck therapy was a lot more enjoyable than OCD therapy, Sid decided, especially since he had the brilliant idea of naming each puck. After their killing spree, they did some laps, arm in arm, sometimes chatting, sometimes in silence.

“It's been quite a year,” Andrew remarked as they took a turn. “If I haven't told you before, I'm so happy for you, Sidney. And so proud: you've done so much this year!”

“Well, thanks. You could say I had a lot of help. And a fantastic support system. And . . . you would be right.” He sighed. “Let's hope I can keep the momentum going. You know I don't like change. And change is inevitable, especially after winning the Cup.”

“What do you mean?”

So Sid explained the salary cap. And Andrew was silent for a bit, absorbing.

“Do you have any ideas about who will be traded?”

“Not really. Not me or Geno, of course; they can't. And I doubt they'd trade Flower. Almost anybody else, though: I bet a lot of teams would kill to get Tommy.” He shook his head. “I can't think about this right now.”

“All right. But . . . first, actually, if you don't mind, one question: how certain are you that trades will happen?”

“At least 90 percent.” Sid watched Andrew mull that over. And then, quite obviously, come to a decision. He also came to a stop, and Sid, perforce, stopped with him.

“What you just told me changes things for me, Sidney. Materially. I'm going to sing at the awards dinner.”

“You are?” Sid was practically incredulous. “Not that I'm not thrilled, Sasha, but . . . how come?”

“Believe me, it's not because I find the invitation any more attractive now than I did an hour and a half ago,” Andrew said wryly. “At all. But . . . this is the team I know. This is the team I'm friends with. This is the team that gave me my hockey name. And I will admit, to you, here on your ice, that as much as I think you all overstate things, I am genuinely touched by everybody's insistence that I am part of the team. Mario seemed to imply last night that some of the guys are a little hurt that I don't acknowledge that fact more openly. Well, I don't feel able to do that, for any number of reasons. However, I _am_ capable of overcoming my distaste for Bettman—or his minions, perhaps—and sing at the awards to honor my friends. My team. And perhaps I can find a way to make that acknowledgment openly. Or, openly enough so that the guys will get the message, but no one else will. What do you think?”

“I think . . . I think I don't have the words to tell you what I think. Instead. . . .” Sid pulled Andrew towards him and they embraced. For a considerable length of time.

Finally, Sid moved back. “We should probably get changed; our reprieve is almost over.”

“I know. But you were right, in what you told Dad: it _was_ necessary. Before we go, though: one more thing. Something you said earlier . . . when you brought up _Kaner di Lammermoor_. Sidney, do you know what hand-fasting is?”

“I have no idea. What is it?”

“It's a Scottish form of marriage. The bride and groom make their vows to each other in front of witnesses, and are then married—validly and legally married—for a year and a day. That's what Lucia and Edgardo did. Maybe it's silly of me, but . . . Sidney, I want to do that. Right now. Let's marry each other. Knowing you are already my husband will give me infinite pleasure—and, with luck, enough patience to deal with Dad. What do you think?”

Sid had to swallow a couple of times before he could speak. “I think that if I'm being honest, I already feel married to you. But I love the idea. Absolutely love it! It'll be our moment. Just for us. Although . . . we don't have any witnesses. Will that jinx it?”

Andrew brushed this aside. “Lucia and Edgardo didn't either. But . . . actually, you're wrong, Sidney. We _do_ have witnesses: the same witnesses Kaner and Tazer did.” He gestured around the ice. “The hockey gods themselves.”

Sid thought his heart actually skipped a beat. “I . . . Andrew, I don't know what I ever did to deserve you!”

“We deserve each other, Sidney. It's kismet, or fate, or something. We are, as _Babushka_ Svetlana predicted, _rodstvennyye dushi_.”

“'Soul mates,'” Sid remembered. “Let's do it. What should we say?”

“How about the truth? 'I am yours and you are mine.' We'll say it together.”

And facing each other, holding hands at center ice, they did.

**********

Neither Sid nor Andrew stopped smiling the entire time it took for them to shower and get dressed. They were still smiling when they got to the car, too, but when Sid put his hands on the wheel, he realized something.

“Sasha: we didn't exchange rings!”

But Andrew seemed unconcerned. “It's all right, Sidney: that won't bring us bad luck. If anything, exchanging rings would almost definitely cause us problems, because once you do give me a ring, I have no intention of taking it off—ever again, if possible—and people would notice. This is our secret, Sidney. All right?”

Sid felt better. “Okay. But . . . one other thing. For the future, I guess. I've never really worn a ring, and never at all on the ice. Some guys take theirs off when they gear up, but some don't. I really, really, like the idea of never taking your ring off, but I might have to. Will that upset you?”

“Not in the slightest. After all, I did say 'if possible.' There's a role I might do at the Met season after next, where a ring is a very important prop, so I might not be able to wear your ring on stage. Let's agree right now that the exigencies of work don't count.”

“Agreed.”

After exchanging a smile, Andrew sighed. “Before you start driving: give Dad a call and let him know we're on our way. That will save him the trouble of tracking your cell phone.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

When they pulled up to Sid's house, Sid had to park a ways away, since there was a van in Sid's usual spot; its rear doors were open, and as Sid turned off his engine, someone emerged carrying equipment.

“That must be the photographer setting up,” he said. “I'm glad we're not too late.”

They got out of the car, and all of a sudden, Andrew stopped short. “I think you were wrong, Sidney,” he said softly; “ _that_ must be the photographer.” He motioned with his head, and Sid looked at the tall shape standing motionless near the open door to the house. Then he blinked and looked again.

“Andrew,” he said uncertainly, “what is he wearing?”

“I'm not entirely sure, but it looks like . . . a cape. Or a cloak, perhaps.”

“In _June_? And . . . it's purple!”

“Actually, Sidney, I'd say it's closer to violet.” They exchanged glances, and then both tried to stifle their laughter.

Daniel popped out of the house just then. And the figure made a sweeping gesture.

“Where,” he declaimed, “are my subjects?”

“That would be us, I believe,” Andrew gasped. “Come along, Sidney; we don't want to miss our cue.”

“I kind of do. You go first.”

“Coward.”

“Yep.”

“Very well. I wonder: what is the protocol for greeting the great and powerful Wizard of Oz? Do we curtsy? Offer to kiss his ring? It's a puzzle.”

Daniel evidently had noticed them. “There they are, Mr. Sabatini.”

The cape—or cloak—turned slowly. “Ah!”

Sid took an involuntary step further behind Andrew.

“Approach! Approach!”

Sid halted—only to be yanked into motion again. “Come on, Sidney. I'm not doing this alone!”

“I'm not kissing his ring, Andrew!”

The figure in the cloak—Sid decided it had to be a cloak, like Dumbledore's—surveyed them as they walked up to the porch.

“You are not,” he declaimed after a few moments, “what I expected! This requires thought. Come! Come!” He swept into the house.

“Dad, what have you done? Who _is_ this?”

Before Daniel could answer, another pronouncement wafted from indoors: “There is no time to waste! _Andiamo_!”

They walked inside—and somehow, Sid wasn't at all surprised to see that the front hall was filled with people. And except for the cloaked . . . personage, he knew all of them, which was a good thing: there was safety in numbers.

“My assistants are setting up in the room with the piano. We shall go there and consider what is to be done! If we are fortunate, my muse shall speak!”

Sid took a hasty step backwards, but Andrew pulled him forward. “I imagine that would be fortunate indeed,” he said. “Come along, Sidney; we mustn't keep the muse waiting.”

“Excellent! You are the singer, I know. An artist! A kindred spirit! I am certain my muse shall speak. And if she does not—we shall wait until she does! Though it take days. Weeks!”

Sid paled.

The man whirled around. So did the cloak. “Now then. Attend me, please! You must all leave this house!”

Sid brightened. And took a step towards the nearest exit.

“I must be alone with my subjects! Only then will my muse truly inspire me!”

Sid's face fell. So did Daniel's.

“I was looking forward to watching you work, Mr. Sabatini,” Daniel began.

“Do you want to indulge your curiosity, Mr. Copley? Or do you wish Sabatini to be inspired? And produce an exquisite record of this treasured event? You may choose. But choose wisely!”

Elisabeth stepped forward. “Daniel, let's allow Mr. Sabatini to work in his accustomed way. We all want this photograph to be special.”

“If you're sure we have to leave?”

A regal nod.

Daniel acquiesced, if a little glumly. “Let's go have some dinner, then.”

“Take advantage of the fact that I won't be there policing your menu choices, Dad.”

“Excellent! You shall all dine on food, while I imbibe of the brew of Parnassus!”

“Make mine vodka,” Andrew whispered to Sid.

The minute the door closed after them, the man started to talk.

“Well, that was a lot easier than I expected.” The voice was totally different now. He tugged the cloak off. “Christ, this thing is fucking stifling! I thought I was gonna pass out waiting for you guys!”

He held out his hand. “I'm Lou Sabatini. Andrew and Sid, right?”

They shook hands, Sid a little more shell-shocked than Andrew.

“Sorry for the subterfuge, but, no offense, Andrew, your dad is the stage mother to end all stage mothers. I had a very frank discussion with his admin—Christ, that guy is a hoot!—and I knew we'd never get anywhere with him supervising. Rule number whatever of portrait photography: if the subjects—and boy, do I get a fucking kick out of calling people that!—aren't relaxed, then the whole shoot is shit. Which is why I resorted to the whole _artiste_ schtick. Great threads, right? From my nephew's birthday party last year: I was Dumbledore, as if you couldn't figure that out.”

Sid couldn't repress a feeling of satisfaction.

“Anyway: I looked a lot better with a beard, but it's fucking June, so no way; I can only go so far, even for art.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Okay, so let's sit down for a few and talk this through. I thought I knew what I wanted, but the minute I saw you two, I realized I was dead wrong. You got any tonic?”

“Uh, probably,” Sid said, leading the way to the kitchen. “I don't know if we have any limes, though.”

Andrew, though, shook his head. “I think all we have is ginger ale.” To Sid: “Tonic means a soft drink, not tonic water. Mr. Sabatini is—quite clearly—a native Bostonian.”

“Southie born and bred. And I hate ginger ale. How 'bout a beer?”

“That we have,” Sid said. “And I think I'll join you. Andrew? Some vodka?”

“I'll have a beer for now. Unless you actually have Parnassian ale lying around?”

“I don't even know what Parnassian means. And I think we finished the Romulan ale last night.”

Sabatini snickered. “Oh, we're gonna get along great, you guys!”

**********

Over their beers, Sabatini explained his vision. At first, Sid thought he was kidding around again, but he was actually being serious.

“When I first heard about you two—and that Simon had me sign the fucking NDA in blood, let me tell you—I didn't believe it at first. I mean, the first out NHL player is marrying an opera singer? Sid the Kid and _il Singolaritò_?”

Andrew winced.

Sabatini opened his mouth, but Sid interrupted him. “ _Il_ . . . what?”

“ _Il Singolarit_ _ò_. It's a pun on my name. It's Italian—ungrammatical Italian, actually—for 'the singularity.'” Andrew rolled his eyes. “The Italian press started calling me that after my debut at Pesaro. It's considered quite an honor to be given a soubriquet like that; male singers don't often get them. Maria Callas was _la Divina_. Joan Sutherland was _la Stupenda_. I'm _il Singolarit_ _ò_.” He sighed. “Dad goes right up in smoke whenever he hears me called that; if I've heard one lecture on astrophysics, I've heard a thousand.”

Sid stared at him. “Why . . . what does . . . wait, _that_ kind of singularity? They called you a black hole?” He started honking.

Andrew cuffed him lightly. “Yes, Sidney. That's me. Infinite density.”

Sabatini laughed almost as hard as Sid did. “Yeah, right,” he said. “Anyway, when I got over thinking that this was a set-up right out of a bad porno, I knew I had to take this job. 'Cause there is _nothing_ I like better than not giving people what they expect. And, meaning no offense, but when you hear NHL player you think of one kind of stereotype, and when you hear opera tenor, you think of another kind. So I came here tonight determined to turn those ideas ass end up. If you'll forgive that image. Although . . . if we have time, and I can talk you two into it, maybe we can do a couple of shots like that; it'll be my wedding present to you.

“But the minute I got a good look at you two in person, I threw those ideas away. To be honest, I sorta already knew they wouldn't work; I musta watched that clip of you kissing before the game last night a hundred times. You guys already defy the stereotypes just by being you.”

Sid exchanged a baffled look with Andrew.

Sabatini explained, “What I mean by that is: there's Sid all geared up, with his bulk. And there's you, Andrew, lean and sleek in that billion dollar suit. But it's _Andrew_ who picks you up, Sid. And you are so loving it! But more: anybody with eyes can see that you're not surprised. This is the two of you. This is the way you roll. This is acceptance. This is equality. This is love.

“So: what we've gotta do, is let you two be yourselves. And if I can capture the fucking joy that you two were wearing on your faces last night, then I'll actually be worth the fortune I'm being paid for this!”

**********

They started up in the bedroom. Sabatini casually introduced his assistants (“Izzy and Dizzy—AKA my entourage,” he cackled), and let them do makeup while he ransacked their closets.

“Lou, this one has a bruise on his cheek,” Izzy (Sid thought) called out. “You want me to cover it up.”

“No fucking way; I almost creamed myself when I saw it. How'd that happen?”

Sid couldn't resist. “Andrew's father threw a laser pointer at him.”

Sabatini roared. “Bet you're glad I got rid of him!” He threw a shirt at Sid. “Here: try this on.”

Sid took off his Pens polo, and. . . .

“Hold it right there!”

Sid froze. Sabatini circled him like a shark.

“Oh, baby,” he crooned, “you got bruises out the wazoo. Dizzy, get me some fucking lights up here! I was gonna start with some conventional shit but fuck that!”

Sid looked over at Andrew . . . who was already looking at him.

Andrew grinned. And Sid grinned back.

**********

Sid had endured thousands of photo sessions in his life, but this was the first one that he genuinely enjoyed. Or, enjoyed at all, actually. Maybe it was because Andrew was there, being ordered around and manhandled as much as Sid himself was, or maybe it was because Sabatini's commentary got increasingly more vivid—and exponentially more vulgar—as the time passed.

“More predatory, Andrew!” he barked. “Look at that bruise. Imagine the fucker who did that to your man. You gonna take that?”

“I don't see desperate, Sid. I don't see hunger. I don't want missionary position under the covers in the dark. _You_ don't want that. You want it all. You can take it all. Oh, yeah, Sid, arch your back. That's sexy. Now let him see that in your face!”

After about half an hour, Sabatini stepped back, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

“You guys are so fucking hot together, I almost can't believe it. This is the first fucking time I did the boudoir shots before the main one!” He handed his camera to Dizzy. “We need to get cracking on the actual reason I'm here. Something suitable for the New York Times is what your dad wants, Andrew. I say: we're gonna push that envelope a little. You two with me?”

“Who are we to argue with your muse?” Andrew said.

Another bray of laughter. “I love you guys. Almost as much as my fucking camera loves you. I know for sure now what I want. It's gonna be tricky, but I bet we can pull it off. We're gonna give people what they expect to see—on the surface, anyway—but what they see isn't gonna be what they expect. It's gonna be so fucking sexy!”

He gestured to the piles of clothes on the dresser. “Put these one. Just what's there. Izzy'll touch you up—and make sure I can see that bruise, Izzy!—and then we'll start. We're gonna do this at the piano. That fucking beautiful piano. And you two are gonna set it on fire. Okay?”

Sid was thrilled. “I don't have a problem with that. At all.” And judging from his special smile, Andrew didn't either.

**********

The actual “official” picture pose took more than twenty minutes of preparation—Sabatini made Dizzy move the lights five or six times before he was satisfied, and he adjusted the bench and the props he'd gathered so infinitesimally that Sid thought he was measuring things in microns—but in the end, the shot was easy.

“Andrew,” he said, “I want you to sing your heart to Sid. And Sid: I want you to let him know you hear it. And that your heart is echoing it right back at him.”

Sid wasn't sure if Sabatini was surprised or not when Andrew took him literally. The music poured out of him, lush and loving. And Sid took it into himself, and tried to let Andrew know what a gift he had. What a gift he'd given Sid. Because every note out of Andrew was Sid's name. And his soul. And their love.

**********

When Andrew finished the aria, he sat there for a moment, not moving, his eyes still locked with Sid's. Then he winked. And Sid winked back. And turned towards Sabatini. Who was lowering the camera from his face.

“Did you get what you wanted?”

Sabatini didn't answer at first. Instead, he stared at the two of them, his face almost inscrutable. Finally, he shook himself a little, and said, “I sure as shit did. I got it in the first shot. I took a lot more, just in case, but the first one . . . is it.” He hesitated; “I never do this . . . but here. Let me show you.” He brought his camera over, adjusted it, and then motioned for them to look.

They did. Andrew drew his breath in, and Sid actually gasped.

“Good God,” Andrew said wonderingly. “What do you think, Sidney?”

“I can't . . . believe it. Honestly. How'd you do it?”

“As much as I'd like to take the credit,” Sabatini said, a little mockingly, “I didn't do anything. An ape could have made that shot. It was the two of you. Jesus freaking Pete.” He laughed. “My muse is telling me we need another beer. Or six. Or maybe something stronger.” He looked at his watch. “It's still early, too. Maybe I'll hang around and take some shots of you guys with your families. Justify my fee.” He laughed again. “Let's have that beer first. And maybe I can talk you two into something.”

“And that would be?” Andrew asked, as they walked down the hall.

With a quick, calculating look at Sid, Sabatini said, “Tell me something, Andrew. And be honest. Have you ever wondered what Sid would look like lying bare-assed on top of the piano?”

Before he could stop himself, Sid said, “He doesn't have to wonder. He knows.”

“Not precisely,” Andrew corrected him. “You're being inexact with your prepositions, Sidney. I know what you look like bent _over_ the piano, not what you look like on _top_ of it.”

“And you want to, don't you?” Sid teased.

“The idea is certainly . . . stimulating.” His voice was too.

Sabatini groaned. “You guys make me so fucking wet. So: are you with me?”

Sid looked at Andrew. Andrew looked at Sid.

“Tell us something, Lou; exactly how restrictive is that NDA?”

“I can't even keep copies without your permission.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow at Sid. Sid hesitated . . . and then nodded.

**********

“This,” Andrew announced as they got ready for bed, “has been one of the longest days of my life.”

“I know what you mean,” Sid agreed. “Kind of eventful, for sure.” He met Andrew's eyes. “I know I'll never forget today.”

“You mean, the photography session?” Andrew asked with an air of innocence.

Bumping shoulders with him, Sid grinned. “Oh, of course. What else could I mean?”

They both laughed. Sid reached for the floss while Andrew gargled.

Walking into the bedroom, Sid turned down the covers on the left side, and then slid gratefully into bed. He almost moaned as the cool sheets caressed his skin.

When Andrew was settled and they were snuggling, Sid asked, “Do you think we were reckless? Letting him take those . . . uh, more extreme shots? I mean, I trust Simon; any NDA he has a hand in has to be watertight, but accidents can happen.”

Andrew ran his hand up Sid's spine, making him shiver. “I have been wondering that myself. Or, to be precise, I've been wondering why we were both so bold. Part of it, I think, is his personality. But beyond that?” Sid felt him shrug. “The only truly risqué shots were the nude ones at the piano, and he said he kept our faces out of those. But still . . . oh, what the hell, Sidney: we married each other today. We're entitled to a little celebration. I can't wait to see them! And after all, it wasn't exactly porn.”

“Well, I can't wait either. But Sasha: it kind of was,” Sid said. “Porn, I mean.”

“Certainly not. It was art!” Andrew declaimed in Sabatini's voice. “The musings of the muse!”

Sid dissolved into giggles. “I have to say, your father took finding out about his act a lot better than I thought he would.”

“Dad appreciates originality. And he also respects . . . well, let's say personality quirks. Some of his favorite developers make Sabatini seem prim and proper,” Andrew laughed. “Honestly, Sidney: I'm dying to see Dad's reaction when he finally sees the 'official' photograph. And I'm also extremely eager for _us_ to see it properly, not through that little lens. I almost couldn't believe that was a picture of us!”

“I know. Do you think the New York Times will actually print it?”

“If they don't, we have others. But frankly, yes, I think they will. I Googled him when I went to the bathroom earlier; he's quite famous, it seems. And notoriously picky, when it comes to clients. Or, subjects, I suppose I should say.” He yawned. “All right; I'm about to turn into a pumpkin. I hope to God I sleep tonight.”

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

After a pause, Andrew said, “Very. I . . . I'm so happy you're coming with me, _mon oie_ ; thank you.”

“You don't have to thank me. At all. I mean that.”

“I suppose not. But still: I want to. Now then: turn around. I've been waiting _months_ to do this.”

Sid let reality go, as his husband's voice transported him beyond the stars.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I hope you enjoyed living through the "day after" with Andrew and Sid! And who knows? Maybe reading it all at once made the experience mirror that of living through it (I wrote a paper on that very topic in graduate school! However, I sincerely hope that reading this is not as painful as reading Frances Burney's Camilla was!).


	6. Chapter 6

Both Sid and Andrew heaved a sigh of relief as they settled into their seats on the plane.

“You know, Sidney,” Andrew said in a low voice, “I am, of course, thrilled that you won the Cup. But could you, perhaps, develop a terrible case of body odor? Or something else off-putting enough to deter your fans?”

“It probably wouldn't work. And you had your own fans too, you know.”

“Yes, I did; I won't bother trying to work out the ratio. Suffice it to say that you had a lot more. And at least both of mine were better behaved.”

“I guess. Do you ever get mobbed like that?”

“Not really. Well, not in this country, anyway. Now, in Italy?” He grinned. “They _love_ me in Italy!”

“Even though you're infinitely dense? Ouch!”

“Watch it, Captain Crosby; remember, I know where all of your bruises are. Now, then: I have an assignment for you. You have to distract me. So I don't dwell on what lies ahead in Boston.”

“Your dad gave us homework.”

Andrew made a face. “I know. And we do need to finalize the guest list pronto. But . . . later. On the plane ride home. Let's talk about something else.”

“Can it be wedding related? 'Cause there is something we need to talk about.”

“Of course. What?”

“Who our best men are going to be.”

“You're my best man. Also my only man.”

Sid matched Andrew's grin with one of his own. “Ditto. But even so: who's going to stand up with us at the ceremony?”

“I don't know. I've given it some thought; I suppose I could ask one of my friends from prep school, but that doesn't exactly feel right to me. I mean, I'll invite them, of course, but . . . no: I don't want any of them to be part of the ceremony. I thought about Bradley, but even though we're good friends, I'm still his client. And even he doesn't pass the Sasha test.”

“Does that still exist? Half the galaxy calls you Sasha now.”

“You're such a comfort. Not. Anyway: I don't have any suitable relatives, really. Certainly not Gordon, who's the cousin closest to me in age. If he weren't so young, I might ask Eli. Uncle Phil? Possibly. Uncle Edward? That would be . . . dicey, I suspect.”

“Why? And which one is Uncle Edward?”

“You haven't met him; he's Mom's brother. And he's a monk.”

Sid stared. “He's a what?”

“A monk. You know, the kind of cleric who lives in a monastery. Not cloistered—he does leave, on rare occasions, although I haven't seen him in years. But . . . even though this won't be a religious ceremony, I don't quite know how he'd take the same-sex aspect of our wedding. He'd probably be fine as an attendee, but I wouldn't want to push it by asking him to be part of the ceremony itself. You know?”

“I'm still grappling with the idea that your mother— _your mother_ —has a brother who's a monk,” Sid admitted, shaking his head. “I didn't even know she had a brother.”

“She had two, but one was killed in Vietnam; Mom's the youngest, by a lot. Anyway: there's certainly no one in the opera world I'd ask to stand up with me.” He fell silent for a minute. “It's so odd, Sidney: I know I'm not the world's most gregarious person, but you'd think I'd be able to come up with _someone_. I'm closer to some of the Pens than I am to people I've known for years. I could imagine asking Zhenya, or, especially, Tommy. But . . . whom will you ask?”

“I don't know. I could ask Army. Or Jack. Flower. Tanger. Geno.” He grinned. “We could fight over Tommy.”

“Or we could share him.” With a roguish look.

“I'm not going there. So, unlike you, I have a lot of choices. But . . . I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings. I know that I shouldn't think of things that way—it's our wedding, after all, and we should have who we want—but . . . team dynamics is a real thing, and everybody's done so much for me this past season, that I don't want to fuck things up. Just between us?” Andrew nodded. “I feel closer to Tommy than anybody else on the team, and yet I've known him the shortest time.” He laughed a little; “I suppose it would look weird if I asked your dad.”

“Him, I would fight you for. Unless I kill him first. Although . . . hang on, Sidney: do we need best men at all? How about we stand up with our parents?”

“That could work,” Sid said, after thinking it over. “And maybe Taylor could . . . do something. Read something, maybe. Or . . . wait: she could give the toast at the reception! I bet she'd love that. Of course, _we_ might not; she'll probably try to embarrass us.”

“I suspect you should omit the 'probably' from that sentence. Well, we can take it. The only thing is . . . Sidney, the Pens should play a role in the wedding; they're your family too.”

“I'd like them to, but . . . what?”

Andrew looked around. “Good; they haven't closed the doors yet.” He took out his phone. 

> _Any way you can include the Pens in the wedding?_

“I just gave Dad something to think about.” In a slightly acerbic tone, he added, “Which has the lovely bonus that now he knows we're working on the wedding, so he'll be happy.”

“He was fine with us coming to Boston, Sasha.”

“Once he knew that it was for medical reasons. Work and health—or lack thereof—are the only acceptable excuses, it seems.”

His phone buzzed. 

> _Honor guard. See attached scenarios. I favor the one with the canopy of hockey sticks, but will be guided by Sidney._

“Good grief,” Andrew said, slumping in his seat.

Sid nudged him. “Hurry up and download it; I want to see.”

Andrew gave him a Look.

“Sasha, you said you wanted to be distracted.” He wondered how many sticks it took to constitute a canopy.

**********

When they were ushered into the office, there were two men already in there. They stood up, and Andrew made introductions.

“Dr. Baker. Dr. Fleming. My fiancé, Sidney Crosby.”

Everybody sat down, and Dr. Baker gave Andrew a stern look. “We were expecting your call, Andrew. After the other night.”

The other doctor laughed. “Up until then, you were the most obedient patient we've ever treated. When you break the rules, you don't fool around!”

Andrew flushed. “I know. But there were . . . circumstances.”

The first doctor actually smiled. A little. “'All for Love, or the World Well Lost?'”

Andrew favored him with a smile of his own. A razor-thin smile. “If I hadn't actually read that play, I might agree with you.”

The doctor threw his head back and laughed.

Andrew relaxed. A little. “I would prefer to call it a calculated risk. Or, as I said immediately afterwards, a leap of faith.”

“Well, to be honest, you lasted longer than I thought you would; you really were remarkably compliant. What brings you here today? Were there any adverse effects?”

“Not at the time. Well: to be precise, it rather depends on how one defines adverse.” With that, he launched into an explanation of what he'd noticed in his lower . . . register (Sid guessed that was a technical term), and then the two attacks he'd had the next day.

The doctors exchanged glances.

“Those two episodes: you're describing a textbook case of laryngospasm. Which would be an uncommon side effect of the surgery. Very uncommon. Let's take a look.”

Andrew sat on the examining table, and both doctors took turns staring down his throat. The first doctor then listened to it; when he was finished, the other one palpated it, and, after asking Andrew to take off his shirt and lie down, continued down his chest and his belly.

“Any tenderness?”

“Perhaps just a little. . . .”

“Here?”

Andrew yelped.

Fleming nodded. “You can put your shirt back on.”

Baker, meanwhile, had called up an image on a monitor and was studying it.

“All right, Andrew. I'm looking at the scan we did before the surgery, and comparing it with what I just looked at. The good news is: there's very little scarring. Very little. And nothing seems to be inflamed. When I listened, I didn't detect any worrisome clicks or glottal gasps. As far as I can tell without actually going in again—and I wouldn't recommend that at this point; there's no point in risking traumatizing anything—the surgery has done what it was supposed to. I can't speak to the 'darkening' you noticed when you sang the other night; you know your voice much better than I do, and as we explained before the surgery, it simply isn't possible to predict what changes, if any, might occur post facto.”

“As for the laryngospasm,” Fleming jumped in, “it's often impossible to be truly definitive in saying what causes it, but there are a couple of contributing factors that might be in play here. One is laryngopharyngeal reflux; given your description, I think that's much more likely than the more common gastroesophageal reflux disease.”

“Reflux,” Andrew repeated. “That has something to do with stomach acid, doesn't it?”

Fleming launched into a long explanation that mostly went over Sid's head; Andrew seemed to follow it, though.

“In a word, then,” he said finally, “indigestion.”

Fleming winced. “That may be paring it down a little too much. But . . . essentially, yes. Do you watch what you eat?”

Sid couldn't help it; he started laughing like a fool. He finally managed to get out, “He watches what _everybody_ eats!”

Andrew gave him a dirty look. Turning back to the doctors, he said, “Honesty compels me to admit that there is some truth in that statement. However, to answer your question: yes. I am extremely careful in what I eat. Other people—particularly those who earn a gazillion dollars a year by taxing their bodies dangerously—would do well to emulate me.”

Sid was utterly unfazed by this.

“You referred to a couple of contributing factors. What is the other one?”

“Stress. Or anxiety. Which would be completely understandable, given the reason for the surgery and, of course, your career.”

“Ah. Well, it's certainly difficult to escape stress, isn't it.”

The doctors blathered on for a couple of minutes. Andrew listened politely, accepted a pile of print-outs, thanked them—also politely—and then he and Sid left.

The moment they left the office suite, Andrew started swearing—rather obviously—in Russian. Sid had to wonder why; generally, Italian took center stage when Andrew was incensed. Then he had a brainstorm.

“Stop quoting your grandmother and tell me why you're mad.”

Andrew's eyebrows took the fast lane up. “How did you. . . ? Oh, I don't know why I bother. I'm quoting Svetlana because she shared my distaste for condescension. Particularly from members of the medical profession. It's 'completely understandable' that I'm stressed? Thank you _so_ much!”

“They're probably right, you know.”

“I'm quite certain they are. But that's not my point. I dislike it—intensely!—when people patronize me.” He took a deep breath and—visibly—tried to calm down. “I suppose I should look on the bright side: the news could have been a lot worse.”

“I was going to say that. But I was afraid you'd think I was being condescending.”

“You? Never.” And the smile he gave Sid seemed genuine.

“Did you really understand everything they were saying? About the reflux stuff? I got lost almost immediately.”

“I got the gist of it. What I don't get—and this has nothing to do with them—is that perhaps I don't fully understand what acid indigestion is. I know—and I don't understand this either—that I have problems with my digestion. And please: spare me any comments about brown rice. But why? That's a real question. I eat a healthy diet. I limit things like saturated fats and sugars, and favor lean proteins, whole grains, and vegetables. I do all the things experts currently believe are beneficial, but despite that, my stomach is a mess.”

“It is. I'm not saying this to be mean, Sasha, but you fart more than anybody else I've ever known. And don't get all embarrassed: it doesn't bother me. I know you can't help it. Have you ever been tested for food allergies?”

Andrew shook his head. “No. That's never even occurred to me, to be honest. Perhaps I'll discuss it with Uncle Phil.” He looked at his watch. “Shit. To use the word of the day. We need to step on it; I don't want to be late for my appointment with Dr. Bennett.”

“I thought that wasn't until 11,” Sid said, thinking longingly of breakfast.

“It isn't. But we have to get there; her office is in Cambridge. And I thought I'd take you out to breakfast; there's a nice little place near her office, but it's usually mobbed, so let's go.”

**********

It was a nice place. It was also little. It was also mobbed, although it might be more accurate to say that Sid and Andrew were mobbed. By pretty much every person in the place. Except for one man who was wearing a cap adorned with Bruins Championship patches: the one in the very front was from 1941.

“I guess I should be glad he didn't spit at me,” Sid whispered to Andrew after the man made his way out the door.

“I thought he was going to brain you with his cane,” Andrew whispered back.

Despite that, breakfast was good—well, the food was good; the atmosphere in the place was a little . . . fraught, Sid decided was the word. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd had a meal knowing everybody in the place was staring at—and talking about—him. But this time seemed different somehow, and since Andrew seemed to be absorbed in his own thoughts—and his jumbo-sized bowl of oatmeal—Sid devoted some time to wondering why.

When they left—and since Andrew was having a trying day, Sid only made a perfunctory effort at stealing the check—he decided to try out his theory.

“I don't think that most of that was about us as individuals,” he said; “I'd be surprised if more than a quarter of those people knew who I was last week. Well, maybe they've known since I came out. A lot more of them seemed to know who you were. But still: I think it was mostly about us. Us as a couple, I mean.”

“Mr and Mr Famous Gay People? The Copley-Crosbys?” Andrew shuddered. “I know we haven't discussed it, so please don't hate me forever, but I hope you don't expect me to take your name; I have enough trouble with the ones I have now.”

Sid bumped shoulders with him. “Of course I don't expect that. And I couldn't hate you for a minute, let alone forever. And I hope the same thing.”

“Well, that's good. I thought you would feel that way; after all, I'm sure you don't want Cole Harbour to go to all the trouble and expense of making a new sign.”

Sid laughed.

“Anyway: you may be right. About the stir we caused. Do you think it's significant?”

“Probably not. Or, well, maybe not. But it is different. Even from the last few months, which was different too.”

“How so?”

“Well . . . I probably won't say this right, but it's maybe the first time people have wanted my autograph for something other than hockey. And I guess I kind of find it . . . odd. I was born gay, after all; I didn't have to train for years to learn how to be good at it.”

“Well, you certainly _are_ good at it. And getting better all the time.”

“You could say I have real incentive. And real inspiration.”

“Why, thank you, _mon oie_. But to be serious for a moment, which I know isn't easy for either of us: do you find all the celebrity about being the first out NHL player more burdensome than what you experienced before? Or is it simply different? And, as long as I'm asking questions: how does it feel to be half of Mr and Mr Famous Gay People?”

“I could do without the famous part,” Sid admitted. “On the other hand, I certainly can't do without you. And I don't really know how to answer your other questions. Right now, anyway; maybe I'll know better how to answer you soon. 'Cause, even though I came out months ago, under the circumstances—you being sick and everything . . .”

“Not to mention in disguise,” Andrew interjected with a grin.

“That too. I guess what I'm trying to say is that the public me didn't change all that much. Because it was just me. The way it's always been. There was a name—Sasha—but no face. It was . . . abstract, maybe. Now, there's a name, and a face, and a whole history. And we're Mr and Mr Famous Gay People, and we're about to have to suffer through a shitload of publicity about it. But . . . you know what I hope?”

“What?”

“I hope we can . . . make it all seem . . . I don't know, grounded? I don't want to say 'normal,' 'cause that's wrong. Everyday? Maybe that's closer. I mean, even given the fact that you're you and I'm me, we're . . . pretty down-to-earth people. You buy cheap underwear.”

“And you buy cheap toilet paper; I've been meaning to have a few words with you about that.”

Laughing, Sid said, “I'll put it on my schedule. Anyway: I don't really know where I'm going with this. Except to say that I don't think either one of us really wants to be Mr and Mr Famous Gay People. But because you're you and I'm me, we are. And maybe . . . maybe we can wake people up some. Just by being ourselves. For better or for worse, Andrew, we're already in the record books; I'd like it a lot if that entry said that the single thing we're most famous for is how much we love each other.”

Andrew reached out, took Sid's hand, and squeezed it. “A most laudable ambition, _mon oie_. Let's make it our life's work.”

**********

Sid looked up when the door to the doctor's inner office opened . . . and jumped to his feet.

“Are you okay?” Andrew had obviously been crying.

“I'm fine. Truly. I . . . needed to unload. Anyway: would you be willing to come in and talk for a few minutes?”

“Of course I am. I told you that earlier.”

“I know. But it doesn't hurt to check.”

Andrew led Sid in and made the introductions. Sid took a seat and studied the doctor; she was not exactly what he had imagined. She was injured, for one thing: a broken wrist, judging from the cast. And for another, he was pretty sure she hadn't always been a she. He mentally shook himself and paid attention.

“It's nice to meet you, Mr. Crosby.”

“Uh, please call me Sid. Or Sidney. And, um, likewise. Andrew speaks very highly of you.” Sid decided to put his cards on the table. “He's been through an awful lot lately, as I'm sure he's been telling you. I hope you'll be able to help him.”

Bennett gave him a openly assessing look. “Andrew's life does seem to have been unbelievably eventful since the last time I saw him; I hope that both of us will be able to help him help himself. Tell me something, Sid: do you share my opinion that with Andrew, often what he doesn't say is more important than what he does?”

Sid thought about that. “Uh, no. I don't. Or, not really. Maybe he doesn't say, um, _deep_ things in words all the time. But he says them.”

There was a pause. “And you understand him?”

“Sometimes.” Sid shrugged. “Sometimes I have to think about it more than others. But . . . I always know when there's something to think about. Dr. Bennett: Andrew told me once, soon after we started seeing each other, that every word is important. Or should be. He speaks five languages; I speak one. So . . . maybe it's this: _how_ Andrew says what he says is maybe more important than _what_ he says. Sometimes. But when Andrew doesn't use words to say something? Those are _always_ the most important things he says.”

Bennett studied Sid—intently—for at least ten seconds, before she shook her head. “That's an incredibly insightful assessment, Sid.”

“I told you so,” Andrew said; satisfaction mingled with pride in his tone. He smiled at Sid, who smiled back.

“And you were right. In general, Andrew, you are often right. But not all the time. To choose an example not at all at random: you're often wrong when you think you can do everything yourself. As I've often told you, self-sufficiency is a virtue only in moderation; you have always taken it too far. You should have listened to Sid and come to see me earlier.”

“I know. I was wrong. I told Roberta that on the phone.”

“I know you did; she told me. But this is important, so I'm going to hammer this point home. And I'm going to do it in Sid's presence, because even though I'm now almost positive he knows this about you, I want him to hear me say it to you.

“Andrew: human beings are social creatures. They are meant to interact with others. You have a regrettable tendency towards solitude anyway, but when you are hurt—physically or emotionally—you withdraw even further. You do the same thing when you are in pain—and I make a distinction there that you would do well to think about—and when you are afraid. You were hurt very badly as a teenager, Andrew, and you put a lot of effort into healing yourself, which you did—but only to a certain extent. As we have discussed numerous times over the years, you came to a standstill, and I told you you would never make any further progress until you opened your heart again. It seems that time has finally come.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Andrew, I heard the advance buzz before you gave that concert to the NHL last year. I was, perhaps understandably, pretty surprised, since I knew your opinion—or some of your opinions, at any rate—about professional sports. But I didn't know whether the concert was your doing, or something you were doing on behalf of your parents, who give so generously to so many charities. I had my answer to that question, at least, when I watched the broadcast; it was clear that you felt affection for many of the people you were singing to. However—and I'm almost embarrassed to admit this—I did not detect anything in your demeanor that singled out Sid. Oh, I could tell the singing style was different, but I thought you explained that.

“All of that being said: I was still surprised the other night when you skated onto the ice to sing. I don't think I even knew you could skate, let alone skate that well, but . . . well, shock is an inadequate word to use when I saw the easy camaraderie between you and the players after you sang. And when you and Sid kissed . . . I cried, Andrew. I was so happy for you. I have always hoped you would find peace and joy; in that moment, I felt confident you would—perhaps even had. But, despite what the poets would have us believe, love doesn't conquer all things. You have your demons, Andrew, and you've struggled with them for years. You might always have to struggle with them. But if you resist your impulse to do so alone—if you allow Sid to help you—I feel confident you will live your life with a full—and healed—heart. That is my wish for you, Andrew—and for you, Sid: may the two of you never be less happy than you were that night.”

**********

Andrew thanked her, and Sid echoed him, thinking as he did that he understood why Andrew had spoken so highly of her; maybe more than any other trait, Andrew prized honesty the most.

As they stood up to leave, Bennett said, “By the way, Sid: congratulations on the Cup. That was quite the deke you pulled off; my old coach would have called it a dangle.”

Sid laughed; “From your tone, I'm getting the feeling he wouldn't have approved.”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe in theory; he liked results.”

“What on earth is a dangle?” Andrew asked.

Bennett laughed this time; “I'll let Sid explain it to you.”

“That I can do. So you used to play?”

“I did: until I graduated college.” She grinned. “After that, I decided I was too much of a lady to hang around with a bunch of louts.”

**********

“She likes you,” Andrew commented as they walked down the stairs; “I could tell.” He grinned. “She thinks you're a good hockey player, too; she told me that before you came in. She also said that if drive and a desire for perfectionism were the only criteria, ours would be the most successful marriage in history.”

Sid burst out laughing. Reaching for his sunglasses as they left the building he asked, “So: what do we do now?”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Sidney: as I believe I'm mentioned any number of times, you will never win an award for your innocent act. What's going on?”

“Nothing. I don't have anything planned. That's the truth.”

“But?”

“But . . . I think you should try and see your voice coach.” Andrew opened his mouth, but Sid overrode him. “While we're both here. Together. You know, so I can go with you. And be there for you. The way you are for me.” That shot hit home, but Andrew didn't say anything. So Sid played his trump card. “I would really hate it if you felt you had to do this all by yourself.”

“You,” Andrew said definitively, “have been spending entirely too much time with Mom.”

“Don't exaggerate, Sasha; I'll never be as good at it as your mom is: she could probably make you think it was your own idea.”

“Probably.” He bit his lip. “Oh, Sidney: I know I should. But I'm scared. And I don't even know if he has any free time.”

“You won't know until you ask him. And I know you're scared. That's why you should let me go with you.”

Andrew capitulated. “All right, Sidney; you win. Which I know you like. And if the news isn't too bad, I'll even let you gloat.”

**********

The mood on the plane ride home was markedly more upbeat than it had been that morning; Andrew practically bounced down the jetway and into his seat.

“I guess you're feeling better, huh?” Sid teased.

“I'm not one to restate the obvious. But . . . oh, yes, _mon oie_ , I feel _so_ much better than I did. Thank you for insisting.”

“Well, you're welcome. And, since you gave me permission, I told you so.” Sid reached over and squeezed Andrew's hand. “I'm glad you got good news.”

“So am I. I can't tell you the relief I felt when he finally gave his opinion. Of course, I also can't tell you how close I was to throwing up before that.”

“He certainly made you work for it,” Sid agreed. “He's tougher than a lot of coaches I've had over the years. He kept pushing you and pushing you. And you kept giving him what he wanted. Fuck, Andrew: I still know next to nothing about the . . . I don't know, mechanics . . . of singing. But is there anything your voice can't do?”

“Lots of things. Of course, sometimes even I don't know what my voice is capable of. As today proved. All voices darken, Sidney. Or get deeper, or gain color; there are many ways to describe it. But I never thought my lower register would open up like that. And the top? When Sandro said, 'The top is still secure,' I wanted to start bawling like a baby.” He sighed beatifically as he relaxed into his seat. And then wriggled appreciatively. “I wonder what possessed Simon to fly us first class. I'm glad he did, but still: it's not that long a flight.”

“You usually fly coach?” Sid couldn't decide if he was surprised or not.

“Depending on the airline—and how long the flight is—yes. Well, often. Sometimes I ask for an upgrade; God knows I've got enough miles. But I do indulge myself on long flights.” He eyed Sid sideways. “Now that the entire world knows who I am, I'll probably fly first class more often; there's much less of a chance that total strangers will feel free to criticize my performance. As happened to you at the gate.”

Sid rolled his eyes.

Andrew laughed. And rubbed his arm against Sid's. “I can see that marrying you is going to be an expensive proposition. Still, I know the benefits will outweigh the disadvantages.”

“Well, I hope so.”

“They will. Having you in my life permanently is an incomparable asset.”

**********

Once they reached cruising altitude, Andrew took out his laptop.

“All right. Let's get to work. So Dad doesn't kill me.”

“I started on the list while you were talking to your therapist.”

Andrew opened the file. And then snorted. “Sidney: there are three names on this list.”

“So? They're important names.”

“I'm sure they are; you've mentioned all of them to me before. Jordy more than Jack, and perhaps Army most of all. And for the record: Dad requires full names. And addresses, if possible.”

“Full names I can probably do. And I can find out the addresses.” Sid hoped so, anyway; maybe Simon would help.

“All right. Now, let's be logical about this. Obviously, everybody in the Pens will be invited. That includes Mario, Nathalie, and their family. Your coach, naturally. What about the other coaches? Or the medical staff? Or the front office people?

Sid pondered this. “All of the coaches. And I guess all of the medical staff: seeing as how their intern is one of the grooms.”

“They were all very nice to me,” Andrew laughed. “And they even let me help them. Sometimes. I learned a lot.”

Sid pretended to sulk. “I think there were days you sent more texts to the nutritionist than you did to me.”

“All part of my master plan for infiltrating your diet with good carbohydrates. Like brown rice, to choose an example from air.”

“I'm ignoring that,” Sid announced. “Anyway: front office? Jen, obviously.”

“We need to make it clear to her that she's a guest.”

Sid shook his head. “Good luck with that.” He let it go for the moment. “I don't know about the others. We should ask Jen what she thinks.”

“Good idea.” Andrew made a note. “Now then: I invited all of the Hawks. It was on impulse, but I did mean it. Do you think they'll come? And do you mind?”

“No, I don't mind. At all. And I think at least some of them will come. Jon. Kane.” He grimaced. “And Saad: if Tommy hasn't come to his senses.”

“Sidney.” A warning tone.

“Whatever. Can we invite Tommy's parents? I like them.”

“I do too. And of course we _can_ ; the question is, should we?”

“Why shouldn't we?”

“Well,” Andrew said, a little hesitantly, “they're not particularly well-off. Two of Tommy's grandparents are in very poor health. Tommy doesn't like to talk about it, and I don't pretend to understand how Canadian health insurance works, but at least one of them requires private nursing services. It's a tremendous drain, and Tommy's parents are proud; they don't like taking money from him. I think he made an arrangement to have some of the bills sent directly to him.”

“Huh.” Sid thought for a second. “Is that why he doesn't spend much money on himself?”

“Well, I suspect that's part of it. He's also a very prudent person. He thinks ahead: unlike many of his contemporaries. Of course—and I say this as someone with the same problem, as Dr. Bennett described in detail this morning—sometimes he takes things too far. I'm glad we forced him to buy those suits; he really loves them, and he looks great in them.”

“He does. And I'm just going to say for the record that I like seeing him in those suits a lot more than I do seeing him out of them. I'm still traumatized by the other night.”

“Poor you.”

“I'm also going to say that if he ever finds out that you paid for the lion's share of what those suits cost, he'll murder you.”

“I presented Tommy with the entire bill.”

“The entire fake bill, maybe.”

“To quote you: I'm ignoring that. To return to his parents: I'll ask Tommy what he thinks. Perhaps they wouldn't even want to come. Although: if they can make it to Halifax, they could fly down with the rest of your family. That might work.” He made another note. “Moving on: who else from the NHL?”

“I suppose we have to invite Ovechkin.”

“Of course we do.”

“Nate MacKinnon, I guess. He's from Cole Harbour.”

“That makes things easy. Do you want to invite Brad?”

Sid opened his mouth to say “No,” and then stopped to consider. “Maybe. Okay, yes. If you wouldn't mind.”

“Why would I mind? He's always been perfectly pleasant to me. Sidney, you may invite anyone you want to. And I even include John in that statement. Clueless wonder though he be.”

Sid laughed. “I doubt he'd come. But . . . I should maybe ask him. Maybe. I'll think about it. I can't think of anyone else from the NHL. Unless . . . do you think I should invite Bettmann?”

Grimacing, Andrew said, “I have no idea. Let's ask Mom what she thinks.” He made another note. “Are you going to invite your agent? Pat, right?”

“Yeah. And . . . I guess I should. Are you going to invite Bradley?”

“Of course.” He laughed: “I can't wait to see whom he comes with. Or how many.”

“What do you mean, 'how many?'”

“Bradley, unlike you, favors multiple partners.”

“You're shitting me.”

“I'm not.” Andrew lowered his voice a little. “I don't know precisely how Bradley defines his sexuality, but without going into lurid detail—which I can't do, because I don't know all that much—I understand that he won't do anything with a man if it's just the two of them. But if there's a woman present: well, I gather there's nothing he _won't_ do. He _loves_ it if a married couple takes him to bed and gives him orders.”

After a minute, Sid said, “I can't decide if that's incredibly fucked up or not. Although I guess now I know why that story about Geno didn't surprise you that much.”

Andrew chuckled. “Perhaps. Although I don't think the situations are exactly parallel: Zhenya likes to experience the strap-on; Bradley wants to _be_ the strap-on.”

Sid laughed helplessly.

“Let's get back to work; Dad will pounce on us the minute we land. Is there anyone else you want to invite?”

“Well . . . I'd kind of like to invite Tolliver. I don't know if she'd come, but I still want to invite her. Unless you think it's weird.”

“Not at all: I plan on inviting Dr. Bennett. They're both trained therapists; let them decide if they think it's appropriate.”

“Okay. And . . . all right, this may sound really dumb. But . . . could we invite Henry and Samuel? They've been through a lot with us.”

“I don't think that's dumb at all; in fact, I think it's sweet. I'll confess: I thought about inviting Freddie. Since he was there at the very beginning.”

It took Sid a minute. “Oh, from the restaurant?” He smiled. “I'd like that. But. . . .”

“I know.” He thought for a minute. “I suppose we could simply include a handwritten note in with the invitation, telling them to call Simon to make the travel arrangements; they might be able to read between the lines. Let's put them on the 'Ask Dad' list for now. He knows Freddie the best, and maybe he'll have some insights.”

“Are you inviting any opera people?”

“Of course. Sandro, naturally. Caroline and Gwen, definitely.”

“Good; I like them.”

“I do too. Who else? Oh, Juan Diego. That's Juan Diego Flórez. He's a great tenor, and a very nice guy. You'll like him; he's also a sports freak. He dragged me to a _futbol_ game once.”

Sid laughed. “Did you enjoy it?”

“The players were certainly pleasant enough to look at, and even Ovechkin would approve of their underwear; we certainly saw enough of it.” He grinned. “When Juan Diego heard about my hockey concert, he wrote me an e-mail, basically saying there were only two possibilities: either I'd finally seen the light, or I'd had a brain transplant. We're going to go to a hockey game some time, if we can figure out when. I really hope you play in New York next season when he's there, because I can assure you, he'll never come to Pittsburgh.

“Let's see: Joyce DiDonato would hunt me down like a rabid dog if I didn't invite her. She'll probably stream the whole thing from her phone; she tweets more than Ovechkin does. Maybe we should send her phone a separate invitation; she'd get a kick out of that. . . .”

Sid relaxed even more, listening to Andrew go on about people he'd never heard of, and most of whose names he wouldn't be able to pronounce. It was so _good_ to see Andrew happy. And relaxed. He tuned in again when Andrew said, “Oh, this is getting out of hand!”

He scrolled up on his laptop. “All right: excluding the Pens, we have about 30 hockey players on the list. So, no more than 30 opera people. That's more than enough; this is a wedding, not a Meyerbeer opera. And you have no idea what that means, do you?”

“Nope. Although I know that name. There's something by him—it's a him, right?—on the 'Second Period Momentum' list.”

“There is indeed; well done, _mon oie_ ; I'll reward you when we get home.”

“Why not now?”

“Because I doubt very much whether either of us wishes to become a member of the Mile High Club.”

They exchanged a glance.

“Allow me to rephrase: neither of us wishes to be photographed _becoming_ a member of the Mile High Club.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the title of this story begins to make sense.

“Are you sure I can't talk you into wearing my sweater to the parade, Andrew?”

“I am so very sure, Sidney. Nor will you be able to talk me into riding on the float: not unless the wife or significant other of every member of the team is up there too. And don't waste your time reminding me that I have a hockey name: I know I do, but since the general public doesn't—and won't, I believe, since I know you told me hockey names were secret—the fact that I have one changes nothing.”

Sid pretended to sulk. As usual, it had no effect.

“Fine. Be that way.”

“I will. But thank you for the permission. Nathalie and Véronique will be there, right?”

“Probably.”

“Good. I like them best of the _other_ wives and girlfriends.”

“You're never going to let Jen live that down, are you?”

“Never is a long time, Sidney. However, I do think I can milk it for a little longer. Unless you think Jen doesn't realize I'm teasing her?”

“I think she gets it. But . . . I'd say she's still mad at herself for making that slip, so . . . maybe try and make it clear you think it's funny.”

“That may be beyond my abilities. But I'm truly not mad at her, so I will try to make that clear, at least. Now: speaking of Jen, we have two—or is it three?—interviews before the parade, so let's get a move on.”

“Ugh.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

**********

Almost everybody was drunk when they got back to Sid's house. Andrew had offered to nominate himself as designated driver, but had been overruled; still, he was the most sober of the bunch—by far.

Henry got out to open the doors and Tommy said, not for the first time, “I love parades. Sid, can we have parades every year?”

“We can try,” Sid said solemnly. Well, mock solemnly; it was hard to be solemn when he wanted to giggle every thirty seconds or so. Every time he looked at Andrew, actually.

“Sid: how many parades you have?” Geno asked.

“Lots,” Sid said, when trying to add them up didn't work. “Lots and lots and lots. But no parade will _ever_ be better than this parade!” He nudged Andrew. “Right?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Of course, Sidney.”

“Is best parade,” Geno protested.

“The bestest,” Tommy agreed, as he tried to clamber out of the car. Sid gave him a helpful shove, took a deep breath, and eased himself up. Holding on to the roof, he poked his head back inside.

“It's three against one, Sasha. We win. Our parade is the best. Officially.”

“Very well, Sidney: I will accept the judgment of the majority. Who seem to believe there's nothing quite like having bricks thrown at one to add that certain _je ne sais quoi_ to a parade.”

“They not hit,” Geno pointed out. “Well. Bricks not hit. Right, Sid?” And he and Sid let out high-pitched giggles.

Andrew winced. “Please, never make that noise again.”

“Is funny,” Geno pronounced as he maneuvered himself past Sid.

Sid peered at Andrew. “Aha!” he said, pointing. “You're trying to hide your smile! I can tell! I'm an expert,” he boasted.

Andrew opened his mouth, but Sid kept talking.

“You're about to say something in one of the languages I don't understand. Aren't you? Admit it!”

Shaking his head, Andrew started laughing. “All right, Sidney. You win.”

“Good.” Sid nodded his head in satisfaction. And then he did it some more.

Andrew thanked Henry and then turned to the others. “Now pay attention: we're going to go inside and let poor Henry escape this insane asylum.” He attempted to herd the Pens towards the door, but before they could make it very far, another car pulled up; the driver waved at them.

“What on earth is Jen doing here?”

She got out of her car and walked towards them.

“I had to come and tell you this in person. Guess what?”

Andrew's “What?” was the only one that had a 't' at the end. Sid was impressed.

“Footage of the parade has gone viral.”

Andrew groaned. The three Pens started clapping.

“Can we see it again?” Tommy asked. “Can we, Sid? Please?”

“No,” Andrew retorted.

Wagging his finger, Sid said, “He didn't ask you. He asked me. And _I_ say yes!”

“And I give up,” Andrew muttered. He turned, but before he could take a step, Sid grabbed him and pulled him into a hug.

“Come on, Sasha. Don't be embarrassed. You weren't before.”

“That was before everybody started making a big deal out of it.” But Andrew relaxed. “All right. Let's watch it one more time. But inside; it's sweltering out, and some of us smell like a brewery. For good reason.”

He led the way into the house, where Sid's father was walking down the stairs.

“Well, well: it's the man of the hour!”

“We're gonna watch it again, Mr. C,” Tommy said gleefully.

“It would be difficult not to,” Daniel said, appearing suddenly; “it's on every station.” He looked admiringly at his son. “Congratulations, Sasha! You've never been breaking news before!”

Andrew opened his mouth, but Geno pushed him. “We watch now.”

They all went into the media room. Taylor jumped up.

“Ooh! Ooh! Can I have your autograph!”

“No!” Andrew retorted. He threw himself down on one of the couches and put a pillow in front of his face. “All right, get it over with!”

“I have some decent camera phone footage here, Daniel,” Jen said, proffering her tablet.

“Oh, I do too,” Daniel said, grinning at her. “But there's no need; one of the local stations did a lovely job of editing several different video streams . . . ”

Despite the pillow, the moan came through load and clear.

“. . . and happily, I was attentive enough to capture the entire report.”

From behind the pillow came, “Happily for whom?”

“What's wrong, Andrew?” Sid's mother asked him. “What you did was wonderful! Most of the people standing there didn't know what to do, but you kept your head and didn't hesitate! The police thanked you!”

“Really, there's no need to carry on so, Sasha,” Elisabeth said; “the report presents you quite favorably.”

Andrew lowered the pillow. “Honestly?”

She nodded.

“Oh, all right. Let her rip, Dad.” 

> _The triumphant mood of the victory parade for the Pittsburgh Penguins, celebrating their Stanley Cup win . . ._

“You look like you're celebrating your lobotomy, Squid.” 

> _. . . was disrupted this afternoon, when a group of youths shouting anti-gay epithets hurled bricks at the float containing the players and immediately fled the scene. Police gave chase, and were aided in their efforts by a private citizen . . ._

Daniel snorted. “Do they train these people to massacre the English language?” 

> _. . . when two of the youths reportedly tripped in a nearby alley._

This time, it was Sid's father who snorted. “Tripped. Yeah, right.” 

> _Police took the youths into custody . . ._

Geno laughed. “They look like you scare them into coma, Andrew.” 

> _. . . and the bystander was quickly identified as Andrew Singleton, world-renowned opera singer and fiancé of Sidney Crosby, captain of the Penguins and, until two days ago, the only openly gay man in the NHL._

“Thanks, Bran,” Tommy muttered. 

> _Crosby's seemingly impromptu coming out speech in February referenced his fiancé, but only by his family nickname of Sasha, and debate over his identity was only slightly less intense than the furor over Crosby's announcement. The mystery was solved minutes before the final game of the championship, when Singleton sang the national anthem and then swept Crosby up in a passionate embrace._

“That was such a stirring moment,” Elisabeth sighed. “Daniel, we must get a copy of that picture.” 

> _After police on the scene thanked Singleton for his assistance, Crosby beckoned Singleton over to the float for a brief interchange, seen here in this exclusive video footage._
> 
> _[Crosby: “Andrew: what did you just do?]_
> 
> _[Singleton: “Make a citizen's arrest?]_

Sid's mother told Andrew, “I can't believe you were able to say that with a straight face!” 

> _The Penguins seemed determined not to let this incident disrupt the celebration, and the parade resumed, this time, seemingly at their insistence, with Singleton among them. When asked about it later, Crosby said . . ._

“We needed him to protect us,” Sid announced gleefully in sync with the newscaster.

After she'd stopped laughing, Jen said, “Sid, Andrew: you two really are the gift that keeps on giving!”

**********

Sid poked his head out of the bathroom when he heard the hotel room door open.

“Everything all set down there?” he asked.

“I suppose. The piano's in tune, at least; it's not as good as the one we had last year, but Michael—my accompanist, remember?—said that he'll be fine.”

“It took longer than you thought, didn't it?” Sid asked, glancing at the clock.

“Michael and I did a quick run-through. The acoustics are tricky in a room like that, especially when it's full of people. And I'm sure it won't surprise you to know that I had a couple of reporters lying in wait for me when I left.”

“It doesn't. You'd better hit the shower.”

“I will. But first: you may or may not be surprised to hear that I also got waylaid by one of your colleagues.”

Sid mulled that word choice. “I'm assuming someone you didn't know already.”

“That's correct. Nor someone I had ever seen play live.”

“What did he want? And was he an asshole?”

“To answer the second question first: not really. There was the potential for any amount of assholery there, I would guess, but it was . . . suppressed. It seems he and some of his teammates had been having a discussion about you and me, and he had some questions.”

“What kind of questions?

Andrew hesitated. “I'm not entirely sure how to answer that. Some people might consider his questions rude. Others, offensive in the extreme.”

Sid scowled, but before he could say anything, Andrew went on, “I can accept both of those points of view as valid, but honestly? I'm not sure what to think. I'm sorry I'm being so cryptic; I promise I'll tell you more about it later on, when I've had time to analyze it more fully myself. And for the record: I need to review both his questions and my answers; I'm not at all convinced that my responses were as good as they could have been. Which I will ascribe to battle fatigue—also known as the side effect of the sheer number of questions I've been asked in the last week.”

“All right; I'll hold you to that. And right now: I'll hold you.” They hugged for a while—until Sid felt Andrew sniffing his hair.

“What are you doing, Sasha?”

“What kind of shampoo is that? You smell . . . resinous.”

“It's what was in the bathroom; I ran out. Do I stink?”

“Not at all. It's just . . . I'm used to your usual brand, I suppose.” He went into the bathroom, coming back with a small bottle.

“I was right: it is resinous. Who on earth came up with the idea of making shampoo with rosemary in it? No wonder it smells odd; I never use rosemary without garlic. I'm sorry, but that's just against all natural laws.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “I think I'd rather smell resinous than like a pork roast.”

“My dear Captain Crosby, there is nothing porcine about you. Naturally, you would smell like the little lamb you are . . . Sidney, stop!”

**********

A couple of hours later, Sid leaned close to Andrew. “Are you surviving?”

“By the skin of my teeth. This is stultifying; thank God I didn't have to endure it last year. Because if I had, I don't think I would have been able to repeat it. I never in a million years imagined that an event with so many hockey players in attendance would be so boring; I think watching a one-armed man attempt to trim his toenails would be more exciting than this. Even Ovechkin seems subdued, which is clearly a sign of the apocalypse.”

Sid snickered. “Well, maybe you can stir things up.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Not really. Although, if you want to take it that way, you can. I only meant: if anybody can make this exciting, it's you.”

“Why, thank you, _mon oie_ ; I do try to keep my audiences awake. Speaking of which: when the hell is it going to be time for me to sing for my supper? I'm starving.”

“You've hardly eaten anything; I thought you weren't hungry.”

“I can't eat this kind of food right before I sing. And that's not my inner dietitian speaking: no singer could. Or should. Be warned, Sidney: the minute this is over, I'm heading out in search of something. Preferably cheese-laden.”

“I'll go with you. Oh: somebody's trying to get your attention.”

Andrew looked over. Smiled. And nodded. And then, turning back to Sid, said, “That's the one I call Mighty Minion.”

**********

As soon as Bettman started making his announcement—and Sid assumed from the . . . mixed reactions . . . he could see that almost everybody had figured out who was going to sing, and that most people were pleased—Bettman introduced Andrew by name. And Sid felt Andrew jerk in surprise when Bettman announced that he was going to sing “a few songs.” Still, the pleasant smile on his face never wavered, and he stood up, made a little bow, and walked over to the piano.

He thanked Bettman, introduced his accompanist, and then said, “Before I begin, I'd like to say a few words about why I'm singing here this evening. Mr. Bettman's office contacted the Pens' PR department with an invitation to sing a song to this year's champions. Since it's rather an open secret at this point that I have a small connection to the team in question.”

Most of the room laughed.

“I admit I'm a little surprised to hear that you're to be subjected to more than a single song—I usually let my audiences decide if they wish to hear an encore—but I'm sure we'll all muddle through.”

Sid exchanged glances with Tommy and Geno, and nearly ruptured himself trying not to laugh. He distinctly heard evidence that Ovechkin wasn't even trying.

“In any event: let's begin with the song for the Cup winners. I thought long and hard about what to sing. There are any number of arias about victory and victors: but try as I might, I couldn't find a single one that mentioned a penguin. In fact,” he leaned forward confidingly, “I will admit to all of you that I had to look up what the Italian word for penguin was. For the record, it's _pinguino_.

“And so I gave up that idea, and, in fact, since scouring the French, German, and Russian repertoires availed me nothing either, I decided against the entire idea of singing anything operatic at all.”

That was a real surprise to Sid.

“Since the last time I performed for this many of you, I sang folk songs from a variety of countries, this time I decided to stick to the United States. However, that still left me with no idea about what to sing. So, for inspiration, I watched clips from game seven. And because I have a reasonably good memory, I limited myself to action that occurred during the official three periods.”

That got a real laugh from almost everybody.

“And it is perhaps not at all surprising that I found my inspiration in the final minutes of the game.” A couple of people started clapping, and Andrew grinned widely in acknowledgment. “This song is by Cole Porter, and I dedicate my performance of it this evening to the Pittsburgh Penguins. I'm honored to call every single one of them my friend, and if some of the lyrics of this song seem to apply most pertinently to certain people in particular . . . well, I feel certain everyone who was there will understand.”

The music started and Andrew began singing. About sad times and bad times. And even though the music was kind of lively, Sid wasn't really understanding where Andrew was going with this. Until Andrew glanced at him and sang, 

> So Sidney, this rule I propose:
> 
> Always have an ace in the hole!

He pointed directly at Tommy, and the whole room started laughing.

**********

To say that the Pens liked Andrew's song would be the understatement of the century. They tried to restrain themselves while Andrew repeated the chorus—with, of course, embellishments—but the moment it was over, they laughed and clapped and carried on like lunatics. And Andrew turned and gave the team its own bow—and then clapped to them, along with pretty much everybody else in the room.

It was, of course, a perfect choice, and if nobody other than the Pens understood exactly why—or understood only _one_ of the reasons why—well, Sid felt, that made it even better.

**********

When the noise died down, Andrew asked if people wanted to hear a couple more; the response was positive, and from what Sid could tell, genuine. So he did.

Andrew introduced the next song by talking about the benefits of the offseason: rest and relaxation. “And to judge from this dinner alone, utter freedom,” he announced, “from the absolute rigors of your food plans.”

There was a lot of laughter at that comment, and even more when Andrew said, “And I now know from personal observation that there are many, many ways to interpret a strict food plan.”

He grinned. “You know, a little more than a year ago, I spent nearly a month singing in Chicago. And Jonathan Toews, who, incidentally, shares my interest in choosing the right kind of carbohydrates—unlike a certain other NHL captain who shall remain nameless—was good enough to allow me to use his kitchen a couple of times. And on one of those occasions, when looking for some peppercorns, I opened a cabinet door that . . . I probably shouldn't have.”

There was some scattered laughter, and even from this angle, Sid could see Jon turning red.

“And that is why I would like to dedicate this song to him.” And with that, he launched into a song about food that Sid kind of remembered he'd once mentioned. Which everybody thought was pretty funny—all of the Hawks were howling—especially when Andrew used Jon's voice in the refrain to announce: 

> I am a junk food junkie.

Even Jon was laughing by the end—although not nearly as much as Kane or Sharp.

Andrew continued, “But of course, you guys can't go too overboard. Otherwise, when you arrive at training camp, your coaches might give you the same advice this next song does.” He paused, darted a quick glance at the head table, and added, “Well, most of your coaches, perhaps. I can think of two teams whose coaches probably wouldn't.”

That song was “Straighten Up and Fly Right.” Bettman looked like he was passing a gall stone during the entire number; Sid wondered if he was getting the message yet.

“And after training camp, of course, the quest begins again for next year's Cup. In the last two years, I've heard a lot of you talk about the Cup. I'm going to return to Cole Porter and sing one of his most famous songs, because I think it captures the intensity of feeling that permeates the NHL.”

And “Night and Day” certainly resonated with this audience.

When it was over, Andrew asked, “One last song?” He gauged the response, and said, “All right. There's a story behind this one.”

He paused for a second or two. “I had a very interesting conversation with a member of the league this afternoon. Not someone I had ever met before. And the primary topic . . . well, I suppose you could best describe it as focusing on the amount of attention my relationship with Sidney Crosby is getting.

“Now before anyone jumps to any conclusions, let me stress that this was a perfectly civil conversation; the questions I was asked stemmed from what was presented as a genuine desire to understand. I'm not going to attempt to recreate the entire exchange, but suffice it to say that at one point, we were essentially debating the meaning of the word 'special.' He was arguing that we—Sidney and I—think our relationship is so special that we feel we have to exhibit it to the entire world. Frankly, I found that statement incredibly amusing; after all, until this week, he was far more well known to the general public than I was—professional sports events being somewhat better attended than the opera.” He grinned as more than a few people in the audience laughed.

“But rather than get side-tracked into a debate about celebrity, I told him that he was confusing the public and the private definitions of the word 'special.' In the public eye, our relationship _is_ special because it's the first one of its kind. Sidney was the first member of the NHL to come out, after all, and I don't think we need to belabor the reasons _why_ that makes it a big deal. However, in private, Sidney and I think our relationship is special only insofar as everybody else in the world who is in love does: because it's happening to us. I think that everybody who's in love thinks her or his relationship is the most special thing in the universe, and I also believe that these two definitions of 'special' can exist concomitantly.

“Anyway: I don't think I really convinced my interlocutor of my argument. In fact, I suspect, although he was too . . . circumspect . . . to come right out and say so, that the real sticking point was that he truly did not—does not—believe that a relationship between two men can have the same emotional valence as one between a man and a woman. So I suppose you could say that we agreed to disagree. However,” and he grinned again, “I share a certain personality trait with many of the people in this room: I really like to win. Therefore, I'm going to sing this last song to Sidney. It's also by Cole Porter—although, in the interests of full disclosure, I will tell you that I have changed four, no, five words to fit the context—and if I do it properly, I think you all may agree that public or private, same-sex or not, Sidney and I share something special.” He paused for a moment. “The name of this song is 'So in Love _.'”_

He sang it unaccompanied, simply letting his voice make his argument. His eyes met Sid's when he sang the phrase “joy delirious,” and Sid felt his skin tingle; each word was a caress, and his eyes started to fill.

And then, Andrew's voice got . . . more intense; Sid couldn't think of any other way to describe it. He wasn't merely singing the song any longer; he was _inhabiting_ it, laying his soul, and his heart, bare: 

> You haunt me, inspire me,
> 
> Delight me, desire me;
> 
> I'm yours . . .

Impossibly, in an instant, between one word and the next, his voice became soft, but it still penetrated to the farthest corner of the room as he completed the line, 

> . . . 'til I die. . . .

There was no other sound in the room except for Andrew's voice as he finished the song; Sid didn't think there was even any movement.

When he let the final note end, Andrew dropped his gaze and looked at the floor. And in the instant of silence before the applause began, Sid stood up and headed for him.

The moment he did, Andrew's eyes leapt to his, almost as if he knew. He held out his arms, and Sid entered them. They hugged, and Sid moved his lips near to Andrew's ear.

“Thank you,” he said huskily.

Andrew smiled. And Sid could see his eyes were wet. As were his own. His hand slid down Sid's arm, and he slid his fingers into Sid's as he turned to the room and made a bow of acknowledgment.

The applause started to die down, but before Andrew could lead Sid away, two things happened.

Someone stood up—and Sid wasn't really surprised to see it was one of the Stars, and not at all surprised which one—and said, “You convinced me.” Which did surprise Sid. A lot. Not that he really believed it.

And then Patrick Kane stood up and said, “You convinced me, too.” He turned, kicked the leg of Jon Toews' chair to give himself room, straddled his lap and started kissing him. Jon's arms—which were all Sid could see of him now—hugged Kane as if he would never let him go.

The room kind of exploded; Sid spared a glance for Bettman, who looked like he wanted nothing more than for someone to put him out of his misery. Permanently. Sid started to laugh, and Andrew joined in.

“How about we get the hell out of here?”

“An excellent notion, _mon oie;_ come along, I'll let you buy me a pizza.”

And then the last thing happened.

Jon disentangled himself and stood up. With his arm around Kane, he announced, with a smirk in Sid's direction, “Three-two Hawks!”

 

END OF ACT ONE

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's that for a snappy way to end a chapter?
> 
> Act Two will begin tomorrow; I hope you're all still enjoying this! Thanks so much for the wonderful feedback!


	8. Chapter 8

Sid had finished half his beer in the short time it took Andrew to show the reporter out.

“Feeling a little stressed, _mon oie?_ ” Andrew teased.

“Will this ever end?” Sid tilted his head back and took another long draught.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Andrew took a pitcher out of the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of iced tea. “Look on the bright side, Sidney: at the rate people are coming out, we're practically old news at this point.”

Sid snorted. “Don't delude yourself, Andrew. There may be five out players now, but I'm the only one getting married. I'm also the only one whose husband—boyfriend, whatever—isn't in the NHL. Before the awards, I would have said that the main reason the media is so unrelenting is because you're famous too. But I don't know if I agree with that anymore. For sure, not entirely. Ever since Jon and Kane came out, the press has been . . . different. That reporter from Chicago? The one who called me about them? He actually used the phrase 'mixed marriage' to describe us!”

Andrew burst out laughing. “You're kidding! Why didn't you tell me that before?”

“Maybe because I don't think it's funny.”

“You don't? Why not?”

“Because.” Sid finished his beer, and yanked another one out of the fridge. “I know I'm on edge—I need a break from all of this—but I'm getting so fucking sick and tired of . . . of all the _assumptions_ people are making! We're both gay, Andrew, but because I play hockey and you sing opera, you must be, I don't know, gayer. Or maybe it's that I'm less gay. Or that somehow, the fact that I'm an athlete cancels out the gay in some way.” He savagely twisted the top off and upended the bottle. After he swallowed, he went on, “And don't try to tell me you haven't noticed.”

“Of course I've noticed; I do have a brain.”

“Doesn't it bother you?”

“Honestly? Yes, it does. But I try not to let it get to me. Because there's nothing I can do about it. I can't single-handedly change the world. Instead, I try to focus on hoping that maybe people who think that way will, after reading about us, or, more likely, seeing us interact in an interview, have some of their preconceived ideas challenged. I can't let myself dwell on it, because otherwise I'd exist in a constant state of rage. And I'm far too close to doing that already.”

He put his glass down and started to pace. “Let's face it, Sidney: it's not just about being gay. I admit, that heightens things. But think about it. Do you seriously think that I like the fact that even people who have never had a homophobic thought in their entire lives often _devalue_ me because they can't imagine why anyone would want to spend her or his life singing opera? Opera is a much maligned art form, Sidney. I was watching _Jeopardy!_ once, and Alex Trebek referred to 'the dreaded opera category.' On a show that purportedly values intelligence! I know he was trying to be funny, but still: that's how much of the world views opera. As a joke. As something to be avoided. And it rankles, Sidney; it really does.

“I work just as hard as any member of the NHL. I spent just as many years training. I gave up just as many other things to make time for that training. And even though very few people in the world can do what I can, the lowliest player in the NHL is still going to be more well-respected by the general public. Do you think I like that? No, I fucking do not!”

He took a deep breath. And then another. “I'm sorry. But as you have no doubt realized, this is a sore subject.”

Sid opened his mouth, but Andrew got in first.

“And before you ask: none of this anger is directed at you. So please don't waste your energy by trying to apologize for something that isn't your fault.”

Sid debated for a minute about what to say. He finally went with, “Okay. For now, anyway. But . . . how about a question?”

“Of course.”

“When we were in your therapist's office, she said something about knowing some of your opinions about professional sports. I've been meaning to ask you what she meant by that. For sure, I know—you told me almost from the day we met—that you didn't pay any attention to sports, but . . . that comment kind of seemed like it meant more than just that.”

Andrew hesitated—and if Sid wasn't mistaken, he was blushing a little. “Well . . . all right, Sidney: I'll answer you. When I was in prep school, and when people found out what I could do, the music department put on a couple of operas. Light operas, of course. And I had the tenor lead in both of them. The first one— _Die Fledermaus_ , by Strauss—was done in the fall of my junior year. And of course, I was very excited. There were two performances of it—on Friday and Saturday nights—and on the first night . . . well, let's just say that it was vastly under-attended. Particularly by school personnel. And the reason for that was because there was also a big football game taking place at the same time. And while our performance was quite good . . . well, it makes a difference, playing to a very small crowd. Many of the teachers came the next night—I don't think there was an empty seat, actually—but I . . . resented the fact that so many of them had made the sporting event a higher priority. It was the first time the school had done any kind of operatic performance, after all, and I . . . I felt it should have been given precedence. I realize that that wasn't exactly rational—nor fair of me, since they—the teachers, I mean—gave up two evenings of their own time—but that's how I felt.

“In the interests of complete honesty: I should say that talking with Dr. Bennett _helped_ me come to that realization. And it was also useful in the struggle I had to, well, negotiate balancing _my_ feelings against . . . the feelings and opinions of the general public. I won't claim that I was ever completely successful at achieving . . . equanimity on the subject. As should be eminently clear by my earlier comments. But I did get better.”

He laughed a little. “I don't think I've ever told you this. But the day we met? I was certain the four of you bought into the stereotype of the 'opera singer.'” He made air quotes. “And, I admit, I was convinced that you all were stereotypical 'athletes.' So I was floored when you invited me to join you. I wasn't going to. But you said, 'we can educate each other.' If you hadn't said that, Sidney—in that precise way, I suspect—I would have declined your invitation.”

He walked up to Sid and hugged him. “So, _mon oie_ , I am very glad you said what you did, and that I had the brains to accept your invitation to educate you, and be educated in return. And, to return to where this conversation began, before I hijacked it into a diatribe, all I can do is hope that all of this freaking media attention is teaching somebody _something_.”

Sid squeezed him a little tighter. “I hope so too. And maybe even more than that. Given that we go to New York tomorrow to do our first big TV interview. Are you . . . ready . . . for that?”

Laughing, Andrew admitted, “To be honest, I'm looking forward to it. Because while we've done quite a good job of planting the seeds, tomorrow we're going to begin Operation 'Make a Fuss' in earnest!”

Sid leaned over and picked up his beer. “How about a toast?” And when Andrew held up his glass, Sid said, “Confusion to the enemy!”

**********

The minute they left the studio and were out on the street, Sid turned to Andrew and said, “Can I just say that you are a fucking master of innuendo?”

“You certainly can—since you just did. However, I think I would prefer to say, for the record, that we both did a handsome job in there.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “Give yourself some credit, Sasha.” He attempted to imitate Andrew. “'Oh, wasn't that the game where you got high-sticked and nobody saw?'”

Andrew laughed. “All right: I will admit, I did say that line very well. But you were equally masterful; you had just the right amount of discomfort in your voice when you said that linesmen can't see everything.”

“You're not going to win this argument,” Sid said flatly. “Because I can't tell you how hard it was not to start laughing when you looked at me and said, 'Sidney, _I_ saw that, and I was thousands of miles away!'”

“Well, let's agree to disagree. I wonder if it worked.”

“We'll find out, I guess. But I think it did, Sasha. They looked like they wanted to ask more about it. Which is why I changed the subject.”

“You do discomfort so very well, _mon oie._ ”

“Uh, I'm not exactly sure that was acting.”

They both laughed.

“Well, if it did work, then I will have regained some of my respect for television. When I was much younger, I loved it; then I grew indifferent to it. Now—leaving our own plots aside, of course—I wish it had never been invented.”

“You and me both,” Sid grimaced. “Although: there's also the fact that without television, you'd miss half my games.” He attempted a nonchalant voice. “Unless you decide to chuck that whole singing gig and be a medical intern full-time.”

“If I decide to chuck anything, it will be large, heavy, and aimed directly at your pointy little head,” Andrew said, totally without heat. “That is, unless I'm mistaken, the third comment of that type you've made in the last two days. Out loud and to me, at any rate.” He donned a level-two innocent expression. “If I didn't know better, I'd say that some of Dr. Tolliver's home truths have struck a chord. Or are rankling. Or both.”

Sid tried to summon up the wherewithal to be indignant, and then gave up the effort. “It's probably both. And to be honest, she didn't really say anything I hadn't thought of myself. It's just that . . . well, I didn't _want_ to think of them until I had to.” He sighed, and Andrew patted his arm consolingly.

“Well, it's a good thing she's such a pragmatist. But please, Sidney: do try not to slip up and reveal my alter-ego as an intern; I can't imagine what she'd say if she knew the full extent of what we did—nor the fact that the entire team enabled it.”

“I know. I'll make a mental note: do not tell Tolliver about the Pen's ace in the hole.” He side-stepped Andrew's jabbing elbow and laughed. “All right, Sasha: what's on your dad's agenda?”

“Something not too terrible, actually. Wedding rings. And once we cross that off the list, I believe we're in the clear—for a while, anyway. Well, except for some details about the music. I still don't know what I'm going to sing. And—oh, this is new: Dad is insisting that we come up with something for our first dance.” He made a face.

“That doesn't sound too bad.”

“Really? I'm somewhat hampered by the fact that according to my parents, I'm a musical snob. To quote my father, 'if it's not a show tune, your knowledge of popular music seems to stop short in 1971. Really, Sasha, could you be any more stereotypically gay?'”

Sid started honking. “I can just hear him. Well, whatever you do, don't ask him for suggestions. Unless you want something like “Dancing Queen.” Which he was singing in the shower the morning of the parade.”

“He'd love that idea,” Andrew laughed. “Actually, though: it just dawned on me. I don't even know if you dance. Do you?”

After giving it some thought, Sid said, “I guess it depends on how you define dancing. I could probably manage to hold on to you and do a slow dance, if all we did was . . . sway. I won't guarantee anything more advanced.”

“As good as you are on the ice? To be honest, I'm surprised.”

“Don't be. Do you dance?”

“Not much. Or not very often, at least. I do know how to waltz; I had to learn how when we did _Die Fledermaus_ in prep school. And I know the rudiments of swing dancing: you know, big band era? Enough to fake it, anyway. But Dad informs me that neither is a good choice for our first dance. And when I informed him that it might also be our last dance, he hung up on me.” He donned one of his evil grins. “The next time I'm alone with his phone, I'm going to change my ring tone to something terrible. I don't know what yet, but it will be choice.”

“I can't wait to hear it,” Sid said honestly. “Andrew, let me choose the first dance. Okay?”

“Are you sure? You really want to?”

“I do.”

“Fine.” He pulled out his phone and sent a text. “There: Dad knows. Expect some suggestions to arrive shortly.”

“I can handle it. So: where do we go for wedding rings?”

“Mom sent me a list; I haven't looked at it yet.” He fiddled with his phone. “Here it is. Let me see . . . all right. She says we should start at Tiffany's, but only to look and get ideas. And then . . . oh. Oh, that sounds wonderful!”

“What?”

“Apparently, the place where she and Dad got their rings is still in business. It's where her parents got theirs too. I really like that idea! Do you?”

“For sure. I'm a big fan of traditions. And even Tolliver can't complain about this one.”

**********

Sid's patience ran out after ten minutes in Tiffany's—and that was about eight minutes longer than Andrew's lasted.

“Good God,” Andrew said, once they were out on the street again, “I can't imagine what _that_ was supposed to accomplish. Why the hell do people want to shop there?”

“I don't know,” Sid admitted. “At first, I kind of felt like they'd make us take a blood test before we could try anything on. And then they recognized us. And after that, I thought they'd draw blood just to keep us there.”

“I think you're right. Not that I saw anything I liked enough to want to try it on. I confess, Sidney, that I'm torn: on the one hand, I want something very simple, but on the other hand, I don't think I want something perfectly plain.”

“Well, I don't want anything fancy, for sure. And I definitely want us to get the same thing. I know a lot of people don't, but I do.”

“And so do I. All right, let's go.”

**********

The other jewelry store couldn't have been more different. For one thing, it was located in a big building with dozens of others. Plus. . . .

“It's like Mr. Ollivander's shop,” Sid said softly, liking it already.

“It is,” Andrew agreed with a smile.

From behind them, a voice intoned, “'I remember every wand I've ever sold.'”

They turned and saw a smiling man, probably around sixty or so. “I get that a lot,” he said. His eyes widened a little when he got a good look at them, but all he said was, “What can I do you for?”

“We're here to buy some wedding rings,” Andrew said.

“Buy? Not look at?”

“Well, both, I suppose. But I'm sure we'll find something; both my parents and my grandparents got their rings here.”

“Really? What's the name?”

“Copley. And Singleton, in the case of my grandparents.”

The man gave a satisfied nod. “You _are_ Alex Singleton's grandson! When I saw your picture in the papers, I wondered. My pop was his gunner in the war! I remember when I was a teenager just helping out around here and your grandparents used to come in; your grandma always pulled a flask out of her purse and Pop and the two of them did a shot or two. Or more,” he laughed. “That flask impressed me no end. I don't think I remember her name; I always called her Mrs. Alex.”

“Svetlana.”

“That's right. Mr. Alex always wanted to buy her something. Sometimes she'd even let him. I remember one brooch Pop designed for her: very avant-garde for the time, a gold spray with pearls and tiny brilliants. Looked like a constellation.”

“I know that pin very well; she wore it constantly.”

“I was here when they picked it up; she loved it. Gave Pop a big kiss. Mr. Alex made everybody in the place do another shot to toast him; he was so embarrassed. But pleased? You have no idea.” He shook his head, remembering. “I can't wait to tell Pop you came in.” Correctly reading Sid's look of surprise, he laughed, “Yeah, he's still alive. In his nineties and going strong. For his nineties, anyhow. I'm Len, by the way; Len Slifka. So, what kind of rings do you want?”

“Matching,” Sid said firmly. “And something simple. But not totally plain.”

“You planning on wearing it all the time?”

“If possible,” Andrew said, and Sid nodded.

“Well, then. It's got to have some heft to it. Especially in your case,” he said to Sid. He left it at that, which Sid appreciated, and motioned them to a display case.

“Give me an idea of how simple. You don't have to love anything; just a general idea.” He pulled out a tray, and Sid and Andrew studied it.

“The top row is all too fancy,” Sid said.

Andrew nodded; “I agree; and the bottom row is a little stark. So: something in between?”

“That works for me.”

“Okay,” Len said; “that's helpful. Listen, I'll be honest with you. These days, guys who have high-impact jobs usually go for titanium or tungsten. Diamond is the hardest material on earth, and it's a 10 on the Mohs scale. Tungsten is 7.5, and titanium is a 6. If you want either tungsten or titanium, I won't be able to help you; I only deal in precious metals.”

Sid exchanged glances with Andrew.

“I don't think I like the idea of our rings being made of regular metal,” Andrew said with a frown.

Sid nodded in agreement. “Me either. Precious metals: that's gold or platinum, right?”

“Those, plus silver, are what most jewelry is made of. To give you an idea, gold and silver are 2.5 on Mohs and platinum is 3.5. Platinum works just fine for most people, but I don't know how much protection those gloves you wear give you. There are other precious metals, though: palladium can be a little brittle (it's a Mohs 5), but rhodium, which is a 6, might be a good option. It's not that malleable—if you wanted an elaborate design, you'd have to stick to gold or platinum—but something simple? We could make it work.”

He walked back to his workbench and took something out of a drawer.

“Here's a ring I designed out of rhodium. Now, I wouldn't recommend this particular design for you, Sid, because it's got an edge to it in spots, but this will give you an idea of the heft.”

He held it out and Sid and Andrew inspected it.

“It's a Mobius strip, isn't it?” Andrew asked.

“Good eye.”

Sid ran his finger around the ring; “Yeah, I see what you mean about the edge.” He bounced it on his palm. “It feels real substantial.”

“Rhodium would probably outlast your grandkids. But I have to warn you: it's one of the four rarest metals on earth. It's not as expensive as gold or platinum, but it's not exactly cheap. And because it's more difficult to work with, there's usually more waste.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “I don't know how often you hear things like this, Len, but in our case, the cost is far less important than making the right choice. What do you think, Sidney?”

“I don't know. Can rhodium be engraved?”

“It can be. Not as easily as platinum. And because it's naturally brighter, it's more difficult to read.”

Sid bit his lip. Then he had an idea. He took out his phone. “Do you mind, Len?”

“Go right ahead.”

Sid hit speed dial 8.

“Hi Daniel. Sorry to bother you, but we have a science question. If we want to get a ring that I don't have to take off when I play, would it be better to get rhodium or platinum? Sasha and I don't want anything that's not a precious metal.”

“Of course you don't. Let me think a moment.”

Sid waited.

“I'd say: if the design you pick is 4 millimeters wide or less, go with rhodium. 6 millimeters or more, platinum would be durable enough.”

“Great! Thanks, Daniel.”

“My pleasure, my boy.”

Sid repeated Daniel's words.

“That makes sense,” Len said.

“It does,” Andrew agreed. Then he snorted. “How much do you want to bet that whatever we pick will be 5 millimeters wide?”

“Don't even joke about that. Seriously.”

“Given our luck . . . all right, Sidney. I won't tempt fate. Tell me: what do you think of this design?”

Sid peered at it. “It's nice. It's not too plain for you?”

“I don't think so. Because look: the inside isn't flat, like most rings; it's contoured. Convex, to be precise. And the edge is slightly angled. Very slightly. And inwards, so it won't catch on anything; plus, the edge is rounded, in any case. It's a little big for my finger, but it feels very comfortable. You try it.”

“It doesn't go over my knuckle.” Sid tried it on his pinkie. “You're right: it does feel good. How wide is this one?”

Stifling a grin, Len said, “6.5 millimeters.”

Sid smiled happily, and Len laughed before saying to Andrew, “You have a good eye. That's one of my father's designs; it's hand-made, not mass produced. We don't sell a lot of them because of that, but almost everybody who buys one says it's the most comfortable ring he's every worn. When's the wedding?”

“The second week of August.”

“Plenty of time. With luck, I could possibly finish them by the end of June: the whole jewelry industry shuts down at the beginning of July, though, so if not by then, it wouldn't be until we reopen. Definitely before August, though.”

“That sounds perfect. I think I'm scheduled to be in New York for a couple of meetings the last week of July anyway. But if it's June, we can always come in for the day. I really like this one, Sidney. I like the weight, I like the design, and I really like the fact that they're bespoke: they'll be made just for us. What do you think?”

“If I hadn't already decided I liked it, that last thing would have clinched it. Let's get these.” They smiled at each other.

Len measured them and wrote the order up. “Do you know what you want engraved on them yet? Or do you want to phone it in?”

“I know what I want,” Sid announced.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Andrew complained; “I never even considered engraving. Do we have the same thing in both of them, or should it be different?”

Len shrugged. “People do it all ways. Most people just put initials and the date.”

Sid made a face. “Ugh. It's not like I'll ever forget the date. And we can't do initials, 'cause he has more of them than I do.”

Andrew burst out laughing. “Just when I think that Jonathan has clinched the 'world's most competitive person' award for all time, you manage to score.”

Sid grinned.

“I think I need inspiration. What are you having engraved, Sidney? May I know now, or is it a surprise?”

“You can know now. And you can have the same thing if you want; I know it's true for both of us.”

Sid picked up a pen and wrote, “My love, like this circle, never ends.” He handed the paper to Andrew, who read it, and whose eyes grew misty almost immediately.

“Oh, Sidney. That's just . . . wonderful. Lovely. And perfect. Well: almost perfect. Would you object to one slight change?”

“I don't know.” Did he get the commas wrong? “What is it?”

Andrew picked up the pen, crossed out “My,” and replaced it with “Our.”

Sid felt his own eyes fill. “You're absolutely right, Sasha. _Now_ it's perfect.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longish chapter today: one of the longest in the entire fic, I believe. One of my notes for this chapter reads, "Backstory ahead." The next one admonishes me, "Don't be oxymoronic."

Sid wasn't exactly surprised to find the Copleys pretty obviously waiting for him when he got back from his “errand.” It had taken a lot longer than he'd thought it would, even leaving aside the backtracking he'd had to do.

“Somebody,” he announced as he crossed to the refrigerator, “could make a lot of money by inventing a GPS that gives really accurate directions. Have you ever thought about doing that, Daniel?”

“I can't say that I have. Were the instructions actually wrong?”

Pouring himself a glass of juice, Sid shook his head. “Not wrong, exactly. More . . . imprecise. When it tells you to take the next right turn, it should wait until you're actually past a _different_ right turn. That you could also take.”

He ignored Andrew's snicker.

“And as long as you're fixing things, maybe try and add a program that says, 'Oh, that wrong turn was totally my fault,' instead of just judging me.”

Andrew laughed outright. “Did you get the voice of doom announcing it was recalculating?” He eyed his mother sideways. “How much did you make from allowing them to use your voice?”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sasha. Nor do I know what you're talking about. The device never speaks to me like that.”

“It wouldn't dare,” everybody else in the room said, almost in unison. And they all laughed at the look of utter self-satisfaction that bloomed on Elisabeth's face.

“Anyway: thanks for letting me use the car.”

Daniel waved this off. “You don't have to thank us, my boy.”

“But you do have to tell us where you went.”

“I do?” Sid sipped his juice, trying to suppress a grin.

“Of course you do. It's a rule, or something. What errand could you possibly have to do in Massachusetts that early in the morning?”

Sid considered what to say. “I don't know if it's something I had to do. Or, maybe it was. It was something that I wanted to do.” He cocked his head. “Actually, maybe it's more that it was something that needed to be done.” He drained his glass and sat down. And then, looking straight at Daniel, he said, “I went to see your parents.”

Daniel's jaw dropped, and Elisabeth looked incredulous. Andrew, though: Andrew just looked thoughtfully at Sid for a second or two before he nodded.

“I presume this is something that couldn't wait until tomorrow evening.”

“It could have,” Sid shrugged. “It could have waited a lot longer than that. But . . . I didn't want it to. To be honest, I didn't want to be a guest in their house without talking to them first.”

“About what, my dear?” Although from the expression on her face, Sid would have bet she was figuring it out.

In the car on the way back, Sid had thought about how to explain this.

“Well, tomorrow night, Andrew and I are going to be the guests of honor. At a party they're giving. In their house.” As an aside, he threw in, “And they're certainly going all out; there must have been a dozen people running around, even as early as I was there.”

Daniel gave Sid his own version of a wry face. “My parents don't do anything by halves.”

Elisabeth snorted, not at all delicately. “That, darling, is an understatement. Go on, Sidney.”

“Well, it's simple. I told them that I needed some reassurance that none of the other guests would be made to feel uncomfortable.” And then Sid watched, fascinated, as three left eyebrows rose simultaneously.

Elisabeth was the first to speak. “You have a masterful grasp of tactics, my dear. How did they react?”

This was where it got a little . . . sticky. “Well, they didn't pretend not to know what I meant. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they'd been expecting something like that.”

“If you let them know you were coming,” Andrew opined, “then I imagine they did. What did they say?”

Sid hesitated . . . and then decided to be honest. “Daniel: your parents have—or think they have, anyway—a reason for treating you like . . . uh, the way they do. I think it's a stupid reason. But it _is_ a reason. And before you ask: they made me promise I wouldn't tell you.”

“I see.” Rubbing his chin, Daniel gave Sid a contemplative look, and Sid started counting down in his head. He had just reached seven when Daniel asked, “And did you also promise not to tell Sasha?”

Sid couldn't repress his grin. “You're good, Daniel; you beat my minimum estimate by two seconds.”

Everybody started to laugh, and only laughed harder when Sid added, “Obviously, I told them that I don't keep secrets from Andrew.”

“Well, of course,” Daniel chortled.

“The thing is . . . I'm not sure if you really want to know.”

This time, six eyebrows shot up. But before anyone could say anything, Sid held up his hand.

“Hear me out. Like I said, they think they had a reason. A stupid reason. And while I know you really want to find out why, there's another part of me that thinks that hearing what that reason is might actually make you feel worse. Because it's so stupid.”

“I see.” Daniel stared into space for a minute, and then shrugged. “Well, I suppose I need to think more about what you've said. For the moment, Sidney, I'll be guided by you. After all, I presume there's no time limit on this; you are certainly free to tell Sasha the entire story any time you wish. And if you do so in my hearing, well, Sasha could then say, quite truthfully, that he didn't tell me anything either. Should he ever be asked. I've waited a long time for an answer, so waiting a little longer isn't a problem. And perhaps . . . perhaps simply knowing that there _is_ a reason will suffice. Time will tell.”

“Anytime you decide you want to know, Daniel,” Sid said seriously. “And if it makes any difference: at least they have a reason. As far as I could tell, they don't have one for why they don't like you, Elisabeth—except for the fact that they also seem to really hate your dad's entire family.”

“That doesn't surprise me in the slightest,” Elisabeth said dryly; “Papa couldn't stand them either. I think the last time there was any contact was when my brother Elliot was born—and that was one-sided, as they didn't respond to the note Papa sent. Believe me, my dear, I don't lose a lot of sleep thinking about them—or about Daniel's parents, at least insofar as their treatment of me is concerned. They are quite free to dislike me as much as they wish—in fact, I do believe I prefer it that way.” She paused for a moment. “Still, though: I must confess that I am . . . well, perhaps _heartened_ is the correct term . . . to know that there is a reason for their insensible treatment of Daniel. As idiotic as it might be.” She rolled her eyes slightly. “Moving on: would you describe your mission as a successful one, Sidney?”

“I guess. They promised they would be on their best behavior. They even said, uh, that they'd been trying. Since the last time I visited. I guess . . . well, they didn't come right out and say it, but I kind of got the impression that nobody had ever called them on it before. Well, maybe not as directly as I did.”

“To paraphrase the young people on the Internet, my boy, I suspect no one had ever spoken to them the way you did in the history of ever. It probably did them good. Well.” He stood up, moved around the table, and pulled Sid up into a hug. “Thank you, Sidney.”

“You're welcome,” Sid said, returning the hug.

There was a faint rumble outside. Sid glanced at his watch. “It's way too early for my folks, isn't it?”

“By at least five or six hours.” Andrew looked out the window and got up. “It's a FedEx truck,” he announced as he left the kitchen.

“It's real nice of you guys to put my folks up here.”

“Nonsense, my boy: they're family now. And its only your immediate family who are staying here; the others have rooms at the inn.”

“If your parents or grandmother would be more comfortable there, Sidney, please make sure they say so. But I think I must insist that Taylor stay with us; I like your sister very much. We share . . . a certain sensibility.”

Sid had to laugh.

Andrew walked back in, carrying a largish box. “It's for you, Dad; it's from Lou Sabatini.”

Exclaiming, “It's here!” Daniel practically leaped across the room, pounced, and starting ripping open the box.

Even Elisabeth looked taken aback. Andrew quipped, “Like a lion on a gazelle, Dad.”

Daniel ignored him as he pulled out a flat portfolio. He opened it and his eyes went wide. And then he uttered a beatific sigh. “Oh, it's _glorious_!”

Sid's slight wince mirrored Andrew's, but they joined Elisabeth in going to take a look.

Elisabeth blinked. Several times. And then cleared her throat. “Well. It's quite . . . stirring.”

“Now _there's_ a word,” Andrew said, in a faintly stunned tone. “Good God.”

“That man is a _genius_!” Daniel crowed. “Oh, Lis: isn't it perfect?”

“I can't imagine anything better,” Elisabeth said slowly. “I don't think I've ever seen a more stunning photograph. It's both . . . oh, I don't know, decorous . . . and, frankly, erotic.”

“It's romantic,” Daniel said definitely. “In every sense of the word. What do you think, Sidney?”

Sid tore his eyes away from the picture. “Uh, well, to be honest: I can't decide.”

“If you like it or not?” Daniel sounded worried.

“Um, no. It's not that. I love the picture. What I can't decide is if I want the entire world to see it.” He lifted a hand and gestured. “I mean: we're both wearing clothes. But . . . fuck, I don't know how to say it.”

“Our souls are exposed,” Andrew said. “Our hearts and our souls.”

“That's it exactly,” Sid said after a moment. “You know, probably hundreds, if not thousands of people have seen me naked. But I don't think I've ever been as stripped down as I am in that picture.”

“Oh boys,” Daniel said, laughing a little and shaking his head. “Do the two of you truly not realize?”

“Realize what, Dad?”

“Well, I by no means want to discount Mr. Sabatini's masterful abilities—I used the word genius earlier, and I meant it—but . . . that's how the two of you always look at each other.”

Sid exchanged a glance with Andrew—and was gratified to see he seemed just as shocked.

“We do?”

Both Daniel and Elisabeth nodded.

Sid took another look at the picture . . . and then grinned. “Well, I guess I can't really be called a robot anymore.”

Everybody laughed.

Elisabeth stooped to pick up the remains of the box.

“Daniel, here's a note.”

Daniel scanned it. “He says he'll be sending a complete set of all of the pictures he took in a couple of days, but he wanted us to have this one as soon as possible. And . . . ah, good. He sent Simon the digital version.” He snorted slightly. “Those tyrants at the Times. Well, they will have their six weeks. I've already prepared the submission form—naturally, I've updated it to include your most recent Cup, Sidney—but let me go print it out so you both may review it.” After a step or two, he paused. “You know: for different sex weddings, the bride's name is always listed first, but there seems to be no pattern that I can detect for same-sex announcements. I reviewed two years of data, and it's neither alphabetical nor arranged consistently by age.” He made a tsking noise. “Given their fanaticism about deadlines, I would have expected the Times to be more rigorous.”

Andrew sighed—deeply—as he sat down again and closed his eyes, not opening them until Daniel came back. Sid took a quick glance at his copy.

“You're kidding,” were the first words out his mouth. “Do they want to know my blood type too?”

“The Times specifically asked for all of this information, Sidney, including a list of your most notable accomplishments.”

“You have only yourself to blame for being an over-achiever, _mon oie_.”

Sid elbowed him. “Look who's talking; your section is as long as mine.”

“Not quite,” Daniel corrected him. “I did strive for total parity, but your description is some 32 words longer. I didn't want to sacrifice clarity, nor did I wish to be prolix, so I decided to accept that small difference.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Tell me something, Dad: have you done any actual work these last couple of months? Or has it been all wedding, all the time?”

“Don't be absurd, Sasha: of course I have. And much of the time I've devoted to the wedding could, in fact, be considered work-related. Marketing thinks a new module for the scheduler, one aimed at event-planners and the like, has great potential.”

Sid had to laugh: both at Daniel's words and at the semi-exasperated look on Andrew's face. He turned his attention back to the print-out. Everything Daniel had written about him seemed accurate, so he moved on to the part about Andrew.

“Wow,” he commented; “I didn't know some of this.” Most of it, actually. Why didn't Andrew ever talk about this stuff? “What's La Scala?”

“It's the opera house in Milan. Your pronunciation is getting much better, by the way; now it's clear you're attempting a European language.”

Sid ignored that second sentence. “I'm guessing it's a big deal to sing there?”

Andrew shrugged.

Making an exasperated noise, Daniel said, “Spare us your modesty, Sasha. To put it in hockey terms, my boy, being asked to sing an opening night at La Scala is the operatic equivalent of being chosen for the All Stars game.”

“And you're the youngest guy ever who was?”

“Not exactly. I'm the youngest man ever to sing the leading role there.”

“So: like being chosen first overall?”

“I suppose. The situations aren't exactly parallel.”

“Close enough, probably.” He started reading again, and when he finished, he shook his head.

“Fuck, Sasha. You call me an over-achiever?”

Andrew rolled his eyes again. “Fine. We're both guilty. Let's move on.”

“No. Not yet.” Sid hesitated. “I know we haven't really talked about it—I mean, explicitly. But . . . you are going to be based mostly out of Pittsburgh, right?”

Another eye roll. “Yes, Sidney. Since I'm rather fond of spending time with you. I have no idea how often I'll be there during my season, but . . . as much as I can be there, I will be.”

Good. “Good. Well, in that case: I want you to bring more of your stuff. Bring your awards. Your Grammy's and the Emmy you're going to win, and your Edison award—whatever that is—and the medal you won in France, and all the rest of it. We'll put them with all of mine.”

“And this is a good idea precisely why? Is there any particular reason why you want to build a shrine to us?”

“There is, actually.” Sid pulled him into a hug. “It'll be a reminder of our old life. When we didn't have anything better to do.”

Andrew laughed helplessly, even as he gave Sid a kiss. “Your argument might make more sense if I weren't quite sure that neither of us has any intention of slowing down.”

“We'll be married, Sasha, not dead.”

**********

After an early lunch, they had to go into Boston to pick up Sid's new tuxedo (or dinner jacket, as Andrew called it); Andrew's entire family had agreed with Sid's feeling that he needed a new one, and it was a good thing Andrew's tailor loved him, since it was yet another rush job. When they got settled on the train, Sid looked expectantly at Andrew.

“Well?”

“Well, what, Sidney?”

“Aren't you going to ask me? About your grandparents' stupid reason?”

Andrew shook his head. “No. Most definitely not.”

Sid couldn't decide if he was surprised or not. “Why?”

Andrew opened his mouth, hesitated for a second, and then said, “Because I'm not sure I want to know. Right now, at any rate. And before you start quizzing me further: I don't want to know right now because we _are,_ in fact, going to be their guests of honor tomorrow. I want to be as gracious as possible, and if their reason—whatever it may be—makes that more difficult, or even impossible—then I think it best that I not know.”

Sid considered that. “I guess . . . no, that does make sense. But . . . I do want to tell you one thing, Sasha. It's not like they came right out and told me. In a lot of detail, I mean. I had to do a little reading between the lines.”

“But you think you're right, don't you?”

“Uh, yeah: I do.”

Smiling, Andrew leaned over and squeezed Sid's knee. “That's good enough for me.”

They rode in silence until the next train station, at which point Sid decided to bite the bullet.

“Can I say something serious to you?”

“On a scale of one to ten, how serious?”

“Umm, maybe a six or seven?”

“Well, since it's over five, I will simply say yes, and restrain myself from correcting your grammar. Again.”

Sid gave his best eye roll, but didn't let himself get distracted.

“I'm feeling kind of bad. About a couple of things, actually.”

“Concerning. . . ?”

Making a back-and-forth gesture, Sid said, “Us.”

“You have my undivided attention. Please tell me what you're talking about. I will listen carefully, and as you're speaking, devise the most efficient way of telling you that you're much too hard on yourself.”

Sid couldn't repress a snicker. “Well, thanks. But you're supposed to listen with an open mind.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Okay, then.” Sid took a breath. “Am I a bad person because I know next to nothing about your career?”

Andrew stared at him. “Are you actually being serious? Or are you trying to work your way up to it?”

“I'm being serious.”

“You're . . . that's absurd. Sidney, why would you even think of something like that?”

“Because it's true. I didn't know any of the stuff that your dad wrote about you. Well, hardly any of it: I knew about the Grammy's. And the hockey concert, obviously.”

“Do you think I knew everything in your write up? I assure you, I did not.”

“I bet you knew more in mine than I knew about yours.”

“This isn't a competition, Sidney.”

“I know that. But . . . it struck me, reading about your, what was it? Notable achievements, I guess. You don't talk a lot about it. How you became such a success. I mean, you make references every now and then, but you don't really go into detail. And I feel like that's something I should know. And, maybe more important, I wonder if maybe I should have, uh, asked you more stuff about it. Your career, I mean.” There was more he could have said, but he stopped there.

Andrew gave him an assessing look. He had his serious face on, complete with the vertical creases between his eyes. Finally, he started to speak.

“All right, Sidney. Clearly, this is important to you, so I won't attempt simply to dismiss your feelings as pure wrongheadedness.

“First of all, and I don't think I actually need to do this but I will, let me remind you that I haven't worked since the beginning of January. This was supposed to be my school semester. There was, naturally enough, not much to talk about, since I wasn't actually doing anything career-related when I moved in with you. Then, of course, there wasn't much to talk about after they discovered my growths, since I could not, in fact, talk. And I hope you will understand me when I say that during the past few months, I did not exactly embrace the notion of reliving my _earlier_ career, when it was not at all certain that I would have a future one.

“You seem to forget that last year, when we began our relationship, we spent the greater part of it in different places, and our most frequent contact was over the phone. Believe me, I talked about my professional life then, and you asked me about it. Without fail, I believe.”

Sid opened his mouth, but Andrew forestalled him. “Before you say anything: I am well aware that most of what we talked about was in the here and now . . . well, the then and there, I suppose, since it was in the past. I talked about how things were going with my job, and you did the same. I asked you how your day went, and you asked me. I never, and I swear to you I am being completely honest here, felt that you were in any way unmindful, or uncaring, or uninterested in my professional life.

“Having said that: there are, as I'm sure you're aware, vast differences between our careers. Essentially, every game you play is broadcast. There are entire cable networks devoted to hockey. That is not, of course, the case with opera. It's a lot easier for me to follow what you do, but nonetheless, you still manage it, Sidney. It's not a lie to say that you've come to see me perform every single time you were in the same place as I was—when you weren't working, of course. So please put your fears to rest on that issue. Okay?”

Sid studied Andrew for a minute or so, before he answered. “I promise I'll think about what you just told me. This is important to me, Andrew. _You_ are important to me.”

Andrew reached over, took Sid's hands in his own, and gave them a squeeze. He also gave Sid one of his very fond looks.

“I know I am, _mon oie_. You make no secret of it, and that makes me very, very happy. So, as long as you're thinking about things, think about this: there may well come a time when I have a particularly important engagement, when I really want you to be there. I know with as much certainty as I know that I'm important to you, that if I ask you, you will do your level best to be there for me.”

That actually made Sid feel a little better. Because he knew it was true. Now. Once, it wouldn't have been true. For anyone. “If I can, I will. Okay.”

They smiled at each other. Then Andrew sighed.

“I suppose, in the interests of honesty, I should tell you something else. You're absolutely correct, by the way: I don't tend to talk about my very early career—by which, I mean the fact that I, almost literally, became world-famous overnight—in any great detail. And there's a reason for that. Well, several reasons, actually, but one main one: I have rather mixed feelings about it. Would you like to know why?”

“If you want to tell me, then yes. Although . . . I kind of think I'd like to hear the whole story, not just your reasons.”

Andrew threw his hands up in the air. “I can't get away with anything anymore,” he complained in a tone that was equal parts rueful and humorous—with some aggrievement thrown in to spice things up.

Sid let some of his self-satisfaction show: he also allowed himself to smirk, but only a little.

After he finished muttering something in yet another language Sid didn't understand—or, to be honest, recognize—Andrew grew serious.

“All right, then. You know most of the background for this story. I started singing when I was six, and it became clear relatively soon that I had, to quote my first teacher, great potential. Said potential being the reason he took me on as a student in the first place: the maestro—Pietro d'Alba was his name, but I always called him Maestro—did not generally approve of children. Now, training a child's voice is a tricky proposition: one has to strike a balance between doing enough to actually teach some technique, and not doing too much and ruining the voice entirely. With boys, you also have to worry about what's going to happen when puberty hits; it's a bit of a crap shoot, actually, since you literally can't predict what kind of voice will emerge. But Maestro was rather old school, and felt that technique was technique, so even if I ended up sounding like a bullfrog, at least I'd be a bullfrog that knew how to breathe properly.”

He laughed. “It probably won't surprise you to learn that I worked very hard.”

Sid grinned. “I have met you, so no. Not at all.”

“Would it surprise you to hear that Maestro tried to rein me in at times?”

“Not really. Now, if you said that it worked, well, that would surprise me.”

“Well, it worked a little; I certainly didn't want to burn out my voice. So, I overdid things cautiously.

“Anyway: let's fast-forward. My voice changed, and it became clear that I was not doomed to croak my way through life. Maestro guided me—he sent me to Europe to study with some colleagues of his. Workshops and one-on-one. I didn't know it at the time, but that was his way of . . . well, spreading the word about me.”

“That sounds about right,” Sid remarked. “It's the same way in hockey. Scouts see the games, but coaches see the practices. Where you can sometimes learn more than in an actual game. Well, learn different things, maybe. And coaches talk.” He rolled his eyes a little. “Do they ever. And believe me, it doesn't stop at Juniors. Which . . . is a good thing. That's how we ended up with Tommy.”

“Really? How so?”

“Well, one of our forwards got injured in the preseason, so we had to call up someone to replace him. My coach told me—not at the time, but later—that the head coach at Wilkes-Barre persuaded him to pick Tommy. He wasn't an obvious choice; there were wingers much more experienced than him. But his coach saw something in him. And, obviously, he was right. But Tommy might not have made it out of Wilkes-Barre—maybe ever—if it wasn't for that.” He studied Andrew. “What?”

After a few seconds, Andrew responded, “There are . . . similarities. Between that story and my own. Which you will see.

“To continue: once I persuaded Mom and Dad to let me skip college, it was time to try and see if I could have a career. I had a lot going for me: I had worked very hard. I had great technique. Maestro didn't hand out praise easily, but he told me I was the most technically proficient singer he'd ever worked with. I had a full range, with no pinching at the top. And I also had something else, something I can't take any credit for, but which helped me immeasurably: even at that age, my voice had a lovely timbre. It was full. Lots of people commented on how lush it was. You see, Sidney, most people's voices don't fully mature until they're in their mid- to late twenties: the age I am now. My voice was different. And, at the risk of sounding absurd, I don't exactly have a typical build. Usually, one needs a broader chest to make things that resonant.”

He shrugged. “But for whatever reasons, my voice had an extremely attractive sound, and it, combined with my technique, should almost have guaranteed me a successful career. Except: there's no such thing as a guarantee. There are a lot of people out there who want to be opera singers, and to be frank, not that many productions to keep them all busy. Or even solvent, if I'm being honest. You have to be outstanding. And you have to be lucky.

“At Maestro's advice, I entered a competition—a major, not to mention highly prestigious, competition—in Paris. In retrospect, it was a silly thing to do. I was at least seven years younger than anybody else. Nobody had ever heard of me—well, none of the other contestants had, at any rate. And if I'd flopped, that would have been it: my career would be over before it even began; everybody who was anybody in the European opera world would be in the audience, and I am certain that more than a few of them knew who I was, thanks to Maestro and my other European teachers. But Maestro felt that the possible benefits outweighed the risks. He had confidence in me. And I . . . I was probably too young to fully appreciate the situation. I dreamed of the rewards, and ignored the penalties. Fortunately, it all worked out.” He paused, and then asked, with a whisker of a grin, “Do you mind if I'm just a little bit obnoxious here?”

Sid had to laugh. “Be my guest.”

“Well. There were multiple rounds, of course. And I felt confident that I would make it past the qualifying one. And after I heard the other contestants, I thought I had a good chance of advancing. When I made it past the quarter-finals, I thought I had done quite respectably; it was, after all, my first competition. But . . . you of all people will understand when I say that, having gotten that far, I wanted to go even further. And I did.

“So: on to the finals. There were ten of us, and I should tell you that the judges were quite exacting: the ten who made it were the ten I thought should make it. The order in which we appeared was chosen at random, and I went last. I listened to the other nine; every single one of them was good. Very good. And then it was my turn. And I told myself: you can do this.

“I walked out on that stage smiling. Oddly enough, I wasn't nervous at all. And when I started singing . . . well, at the risk of being _totally_ immodest: that audience didn't know what hit them. For the next eight minutes, I had them all _entranced_. I sang one of Rossini's most difficult arias and I made it look effortless. And I made it look fun. Which it was, actually. Well, for me; I suspect that none of the other finalists enjoyed it very much. Because there was no doubt in anyone's mind that I'd won. The applause went on forever.”

“I'll bet it did,” Sid said proudly. “But . . . I don't understand. Why would you have mixed feelings about this?”

“I don't—not about this. I won the competition on my own merits. If you ignore the bonus of the fact that my voice sounded more attractive than anybody else's, anyway. No, I deserved to win. I'd worked hard—well, so had everybody else, I'm sure. But . . . my technique was better. My breath control was better. I was the youngest person there, but, objectively speaking, I was the best.” He grinned again. “And since you've given me permission to boast: as good as I was that day: I'm better now. It's not the competition so much, as what happened soon after that.

“Needless to say, there was a lot of interest in me. But—and I seem to recall telling you this once—in some ways, opera moves very, very slowly. Many parts are cast years in advance. So, the interest was there, but the parts weren't. At least, not immediately. However: I was offered a small part at Pesaro a little later that summer, because the person scheduled to sing the role had withdrawn. I was over the moon, because Pesaro is a big deal. So I went there early, and was hanging around. Schmoozing, I guess. Which doesn't come all that easily to me—although I suppose I'm better at it now than I was then.

“It was a new experience for me, being so immersed in music. Well, not that, precisely: I had been for years. I guess I mean, being surrounded by other people also totally immersed in it. I was, even then—or perhaps especially then—kind of a loner.

“In any event: there I was. Insofar as it was possible, I tried to fly under the radar, because that way, I got to see a lot more. I snuck into every rehearsal I could.” He shook his head ruefully. “I was incredibly naïve, because of course, I wasn't actually escaping notice. On the contrary. As you will see, any number of people knew exactly who I was, and what I was doing. And, perhaps more importantly, what my winning the competition implied I was _capable_ of doing.

“To continue, then. The big draw at the festival that year was a revival of one of Rossini's more obscure operas. The tenor role is fiendishly difficult, and it was to be sung, not by Juan Diego Flórez, whom I know I have mentioned to you, and who became a household name singing that part, but by his only real competition for the throne of bel canto tenordom, Mario Farra. About five years earlier, Farra had burst onto the opera scene like a super-nova, according to the Italian press, which loves its extravagant metaphors. And similes, obviously.

“Farra was an admirable singer: excellent technique, lovely timbre. His diction was a little sloppy, but nobody really cared because he could produce the most beautiful sounds. Rumors had it that houses around the world were paying him more than top dollar to sing there, and that he had bookings scheduled for at least seven years. Hot stuff, in other words. You couldn't get a ticket to Pesaro opening night for love or money; the press local talked about it almost incessantly for weeks.

“Anyway: two days before the opening, he was in a motorcycle accident and was killed. And to say that threw the festival into pandemonium is an understatement. Or so I later discovered; it happened late at night, and I was asleep, so the first I heard of it was when somebody started pounding on my door at the _penzione_ where I was staying.

“Now, you know I sleep naked. I jumped out of bed, but before I could put anything on, the door flew open, and three or four people from the festival—including the conductor and the director of the opera—burst in. And it was very loud, and very Italian—lots of yelling—but once I told them that yes, I knew the role well enough to sing it, they asked me if I would.

“And of course I said yes—and then shocked the hell out of them by saying, 'On one condition.' And the condition was, that they find tickets for Mom and Dad. Now remember: I was definitely not in a position to make conditions at the time. But family is very important there, and everybody laughed. And they agreed.

“So they hustled me to the theater—they barely gave me a chance to put on my underpants, let alone my clothes; good thing Ovechkin wasn't there. And less than 48 hours later, I walked on stage, with Mom and Dad in the audience. And please forgive me for being totally obnoxious, but . . . I sang that role better than Farra ever could have. Even in those days, my breath control was very, very good, and believe me, you need it in that opera. The audience went crazy, and the press? The press was insane. One critic wrote that Rossini's music and my voice were like nectar and ambrosia—which of course makes no sense—and another one had the unfortunate inspiration to dub me “ _il Singolarit_ _ò,_ ” about which we need say nothing additional, except that Mom threatened Dad with a diet of nothing but bread and water if he didn't stop carrying on about it.

“But the best part of all of this critical adulation—for my career, I mean—was the fact that with the reviews I got, practically every role Farra had been slated to do was offered to me. Well, either me or Juan Diego—and he didn't exactly have time for very many. You see, Sidney, stepping into a role and getting wonderful reviews is not all that uncommon in opera. But because casting is done so far in advance, even after you make a splash, it often ends up being just an isolated plop, because it takes a while to get other roles. That was the case when I won the competition. But after Pesaro? Or, to be more precise, after Farra's death and my performance? Because Farra was so young, and so popular, and had so much scheduled—and because I was a workaholic who had mastered at least two dozen roles before I was twenty—I almost instantly had more work than I could handle. And my reviews kept getting better and better, and so. . . .” He shrugged. “I now have more frequent flier miles than any one person could use.”

He paused for a few moments, and then quirked an eyebrow at Sid. “And now, _mon oie_ , you have all of the information you need to figure out why I have mixed feelings. Feeling up to the challenge?”

Sid couldn't help it. He rolled his eyes. Ostentatiously.

“Duh. I saw where this was going two train stations ago.”

Andrew started laughing, and Sid joined in. A little.

“Listen, Andrew. I know I'm not going to tell you anything you don't already know, or haven't thought of yourself probably about a thousand times. But . . . stop it. Just stop feeling guilty. You didn't kill that guy, did you?”

“No, Sidney, I did not. However, you may not be at all surprised to learn that it wasn't long before many people on various opera Internet forums began to opine that I must have. Or that I paid someone to kill him. Or that I fucked the director or the conductor of the opera at Pesaro to get the part; the more ingenious of the conspiracy theorists believed that I fucked both of them at the same time and that they then went out and sabotaged the motor bike themselves. Still flush with the heady excitement of having tasted my carnal talents.”

“Well, obviously, they don't know what they're talking about,” Sid said, striving to keep his tone matter-of-fact. “Anyone who's ever gone to bed with you would know that after you were done with them, there's no way they'd have any energy left over to do anything.”

**********

Sid turned away from the mirror. “What do you think, Sasha?”

“Very nice. I think you made the right choice: classic and understated.” Andrew smirked at him. “You have a regrettable tendency to favor overly wide lapels, _mon oie_.”

Sid contented himself with a semi-exasperated glare. “Not that I'm an expert, but you do know that fashions change once in a while, right?”

“I've heard rumors. But just because they do, doesn't mean that we have to adopt all of them. Isn't that right, Stephen?”

The tailor grinned. “One of the many benefits of not buying off the rack,” he said, pretending to shudder. He made an infinitesimal adjustment to Sid's right shoulder and then nodded, satisfied. “Everything looks good, Mr. Crosby. Now remember: you're going to want to come in half-way through your season so we can fit a second pair of trousers.”

Sid nodded. He started to take off the jacket, but Stephen stopped him.

“Before you do that. . . .” he paused. “Mr. Crosby, I hope you don't mind, but we took the liberty of fashioning something a little . . . special for you. For the two of you, actually.” He walked over to the counter and picked up two flat boxes.

Sid opened his first . . . and immediately started to beam. “That's fantastic!” He lifted out the cummerbund. “Look, Sasha!”

“Very nice,” Andrew said, amusement and pleasure mingling in his voice. “That's exactly the right shade of gold, isn't it?”

“It is,” Sid agreed. “And just enough of it, too.” He held it up to his waist and looked in the mirror. “This is really, really great. Is yours the same?” he asked.

“It is.”

“You don't think it's too much, do you, Mr. Copley?” Stephen asked, somewhat anxiously. “We know you're a stickler for tradition, but we thought given the circumstances—I mean, the occasion you'll be wearing this—it might be nice to have something a little bit out of the ordinary. To commemorate the event.”

“It's not too much at all, Stephen,” Andrew said firmly. “In fact, it's just right. Thank you so much.”

Sid echoed him. He took one last look in the mirror before going to change.

When they left the tailor's, Sid immediately asked Andrew, “You're not upset, are you?”

An inquisitive eyebrow. “About what?”

“You know perfectly well what.”

Laughing, Andrew said, “I suppose I do. And no: of course, I'm not upset. Why would I be?”

Sid squirmed a little. “Well, the fact that we'll both be wearing Pens colors.”

“You need to relax a little bit, Sidney. Or perhaps more than a little bit. Seriously. I think it was incredibly sweet of them to do that for us. Only one of us wears a uniform, after all, so of course that's the obvious choice for colors. And besides—as you are quite fond of reminding me: am I not a member of the team? Hockey name, remember?”

Pleased, Sid bumped shoulders with him.

“Where to now?”

“Well, given the gifts we just received, we need to go to my place.” Andrew looked at his watch. “If we hurry, we should still be able to make the next train.”

“Why do we have to go there?” Sid asked, adjusting his pace to match.

“Because the shirt studs and cuff links I generally wear are platinum-edged, and of course I can't wear those with the gold cummerbund. So I need to pick up an alternate set.”

Sid snorted. “Of course.” He shook his head. “How do you think of things like this? And who has more than one set of those things, anyway?”

“Sidney.” Andrew's tone was patience itself. “I wear formal attire frequently. Of course I have more than one set. What if I lost a shirt stud? Would you suggest I appear on stage wearing a safety pin? And as for your other question: would you wear your visitor's helmet during a home game?” He didn't wait for a response. “Of course not.”

“I guess that makes sense. Well, good thing my set is just plain black.”

“Is it onyx?”

“I have no idea what that even means. It's black.”

“Enough said. Moving on: when you were changing, Stephen told me that they've had a significant uptick in the number of their NHL clients.”

“You're kidding.”

“I'm not.”

“Did he say who?”

Andrew shook his head. “No, and I didn't think I could ask. From the context, though, I'd say at least a couple of the Bruins. And one of your 'colleagues,' whatever that means. Apparently just this morning.”

“He can't mean Tommy, then; Tommy wouldn't come to Boston without telling us. For sure, Tommy wouldn't go _there_ without telling us either.” Sid laughed a little. “Plus, Tommy will wear those suits he got until he retires. Or dies, probably.”

Andrew snickered. “You may well be right.”

“Speaking of Tommy . . . well, sort of: don't even think about trying to pay for my tuxedo.”

“I have no intention of doing so.”

Sid eyed him. “Really?”

“Really. In fact, I told Stephen specifically not to send the bill to me.”

“Well, good.” And then Sid replayed that sentence in his mind. “Okay, Sasha: who _did_ you tell him to send the bill to?”

“Dad.”

**********

As they approached Andrew's building, Andrew cursed under his breath—in English—and ran up to the front door, where an elderly woman was attempting to negotiate a two-wheeled shopping cart.

Andrew started scolding the woman from ten feet away. “Miss Ruthie! Not another step, please: let me help you.” Even from a little distance away, Sid had no problem detecting the mingled tones of fondness and exasperation. “What were you thinking of, going out in this heat in the middle of the day?”

Somewhat breathily, the woman replied, “Oh, Andrew: you fuss too much. I needed a few things, that's all.” Sid noticed, though, that she didn't protest when Andrew commandeered the cart.

“Well, why on earth didn't you call the order in? You know they'll deliver to this building.”

“For you, maybe,” she said, a little cheekily; Sid couldn't help but smirk.

Andrew, though, was made of sterner stuff. “I've told you a hundred times: use my name. Do I have to add you to the already too-long list of things I need to worry about?” From the tone of his voice, Sid figured she was already on that list. And probably close to the top.

Andrew yanked the cart with his left hand, and held his right arm out. “Now, come on: I'll need you to balance me.”

They went inside, and for the first time in Sid's memory, Andrew walked over to the elevator. While they waited, Andrew introduced them.

“Miss Ruthie: I'd like you to meet my fiancé, Sidney Crosby. Sidney, this is a very dear friend of my entire family and my favorite neighbor, Ruth Stuart. I would have introduced you two last summer, but Miss Ruthie was away for most of July.”

“At a family reunion,” Miss Ruthie said; “we managed a wedding, a christening, and a funeral. I left before the apocalypse could happen.” Startled, Sid laughed, and her eyes twinkled as she held out her hand. “I'm so pleased to meet you in person. Andrew's showed me pictures, but they don't do you justice.”

“Uh, thank you.” The elevator doors opened, and Sid thrust his arm in front of the door until she and Andrew could get in. He reached out to the buttons and waited, looking inquiringly at Andrew.

“Four, please. Miss Ruthie lives below me.”

As the elevator made its (very slow) ascent, they chatted, but neither Sid nor Andrew missed the fact that she didn't let go of Andrew's arm.

The fourth floor was very different from Andrew's level. His was one of only two apartments up there; here there were numerous doors. They made their way to the end of the hall, and Miss Ruthie fumbled for her keys . . . which Andrew, predictably, took from her.

The blast of heat that emerged was stifling.

“Miss Ruthie! What is going on here?”

She waved her hand at him. “It's nothing, Andrew. Just a little maintenance issue.”

“A little . . . what _kind_ of a maintenance issue?”

“The air conditioning's been, well, a little erratic, the last week or so.”

Sid had known Andrew for almost two years. He'd seen Andrew irritated. Angry. Furious. But he was willing to bet he'd never seen Andrew this close to homicidal.

“Well, clearly, you can't stay here. It's unhealthy. Come on: let's go to my place, and I'll get this problem sorted out.”

“Andrew, I don't want. . . .”

“Miss Ruthie.” Andrew's voice, although perfectly polite, was like steel. “I know you value your independence, but I cannot allow you to stay in that apartment until it's habitable. Please come upstairs.”

She sighed . . . and acquiesced.

As soon as she was settled on the sofa in the living room with a cold drink, Andrew excused himself; he was scrolling through his contacts before he even left the room. Sid followed him with his eyes; he really wanted to be close enough to listen to what was certain to be an epic conversation, but he supposed that would be rude. He sat down on one of the chairs; the room looked . . . different without the piano. Which was still in Sid's house. Which made Sid very happy.

“He's such a caring person,” Miss Ruthie commented softly.

That Sid could certainly agree with, and did. “Have you known him long?”

“Oh, his entire life. And his mother for all of hers. But I knew his grandparents—his grandmother in particular—best.” She shook her head, and even Sid could tell the gesture was fond. “Svetlana was a force of nature, just as he is. After the war, when she and Alex first settled in here—in Boston, I mean—she was determined to improve her English. And when Svetlana Singleton was determined to do something, that thing got done.” She smiled, and Sid did too.

“From everything I've heard about her . . . uh, that sounds about right.”

“Indeed, yes. I tutored her. And we became friends. It was Svetlana who insisted I take the apartment downstairs, in fact. More than fifty years ago.” She was silent, then, for a space. “I miss her terribly.” She sighed, but then brightened. “It was such a happy day when Andrew moved in here. Oh, the bustle and the turmoil beforehand! It was a difficult job, I understand, building his studio: the red tape, and the permits!” She made a disdainful noise. “But, just like Svetlana, he was . . . well, indefatigable might be the best word, I suppose. And so considerate of the neighbors, too!” She leaned forward and confided, “He made the construction crew adapt their hours to keep disruptions at a minimum. It was quite a Herculean task, building that studio: especially given his schedule.”

“And I never would have been able to do it without you, Miss Ruthie,” Andrew said, striding back into the room. He was smiling, but Sid could tell he was still . . . exercised. “Sidney, she was so, so helpful. And still is: I never have to worry when I'm on the road; she takes care of anything that comes up.” His voice became a little more severe, then: “Would that she took as good care of herself as she does of me. Miss Ruthie, I spoke with the office, and someone will be here within the hour to do the repairs.” He compressed his lips, and once again, Sid regretted not having heard _that_ conversation. “I told them you'd be here. And you will stay here until the work is done and your apartment is comfortable.”

“Andrew, no. . . .”

“Yes.” His tone was implacable. “I will not budge on this, Miss Ruthie. Although: I just realized. You are attending the party tomorrow night, correct?”

She nodded. “I got a very nice note from your other grandparents inviting me.”

“Well, then. You're coming with us to Mom and Dad's. Today. That way, it doesn't matter how long it takes; at least I'll know you'll be comfortable. Agreed?” He gave her a challenging look, and, not surprisingly, she agreed.

Satisfied, Andrew nodded. “Now, why don't you close your eyes and have a little rest, while Sidney and I get a few things ready. Then we'll stop at your place and pack your things.”

She sighed—softly. “All right. Andrew . . . thank you.”

“There is no need to thank me. At all.” He smiled at her. “I'm happy to help. Now, rest.”

He gathered Sid with a look, and they went down the hall. Sid thought they'd go into the bedroom, but instead, Andrew opened the door to his studio, and after Sid went through, closed it firmly behind him. The minute he entered the studio, he started pacing.

“Those incompetent fools!” He switched to some other language, but Sid interrupted him.

“Say it in English, please. I deserve a bonus.” He sat down on the nearer couch and gave Andrew an expectant look.

Despite himself, Andrew laughed. “It's not particularly inventive, _mon oie_ ; I dare say you're heard me say worse. And I _know_ I've heard you say worse. They're certainly not worth the trouble of composing original invective.” He threw up his hands. “It's just so frustrating. Why can't people simply do the jobs they're paid to do? And why are good people, people who don't want to make a fuss, shat on? If any other tenant in this building had no air conditioning, you may rest assured the maintenance people would get phone call after phone call until it was handled.” He made a face. “Actually, if it had been any other tenant, one phone call probably would have been enough, since I have no doubt it would have been accompanied by the threat of a lawsuit. But poor Miss Ruthie?” Shaking his head, he plopped down next to Sid. “I don't know what she was thinking. Trying to live in that heat? She could have become seriously ill! Or even died! A fact which I had no qualms about throwing in that bastard manager's face. Metaphorically, at least, and it's a good thing we were on the phone, because given what my temper's like these days . . . well, enough of that. And enough of him.”

Sid took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “What'd you tell him? The manager, I mean.”

“I reminded him that his company had been instructed to handle any issues Miss Ruthie had as if they were my issues. And then I emended those instructions, and told him to treat her issues as if they were my grandfather's.” He nodded with satisfaction. “Believe me, _that_ got a reaction; Grandfather is the only reason that company has the maintenance contract, and even that cretin knows it. And honestly? If Miss Ruthie had gotten ill, Grandfather's wrath would be the least of it, because I swear _Babushka_ Svetlana would rise from the grave, the Grim Reaper's scythe in hand, and mow down every single employee in that so-called management company.”

Sid had to laugh; he could just imagine it. “I take it they were good friends; she said downstairs that she really missed your grandmother.

A little calmer now, Andrew nodded, “They were very close. Before she died, Svetlana made me promise to look after her.”

Sid nodded slowly; Andrew's reactions made even more sense now that he knew that. “Did your grandmother have a lot of friends?”

Staring off into space for a moment, Andrew replied slowly, “Not really. She and _Dedushka_ Alex did socialize a fair amount, but I always got the impression it was . . . well, relatively superficial. Business things, you know? Or charity events. They did have good friends, but only a few. Certainly, Miss Ruthie was one of the closest; in fact, she's Uncle Edward's godmother.” He grinned a little. “Let's face it, Sidney: no one in my immediate family is particularly gregarious. On Mom's side, at any rate; Dad's side is a little different. As you will no doubt discover tomorrow night.”

Sid made a face, making Andrew chuckle. Then he glanced at his watch and grimaced himself. “We've missed our train; I'm sorry about delaying us, Sidney.”

Rolling his eyes, Sid remarked, “I would greatly appreciate it, Sasha, if you would shut the fuck up.”

“Why, certainly. Or perhaps I should quote you and say, 'As you wish.'” He stood up. “Let's go downstairs; I still need to get my stud set.” After taking a step or two, though, he stopped.

“I don't know where my head is today. I don't want Miss Ruthie to have to walk to the train. Let me call for a car.”

He pulled out his phone. Sid decided to use his time wisely and went over to the piano. He sat down, and without actually pressing down on the keys (well, mostly), practiced the stretching exercises Andrew had shown him. He smirked a little, inwardly: Andrew was a much better piano teacher than he was a spreadsheet teacher.

Andrew was taking a while, so Sid located what he (refused to admit out loud) called center ice and softly played the C major scale. (Or, as he referred to it in his head, the “C” major scale. Or “his” scale, depending on his mood.)

When Andrew finally finished, Sid asked him, “What's going on?”

“There are no cars available. And since it'll be rush hour by the time we get a train, it'll be crowded, and I don't want to subject Miss Ruthie to that. So the car that's picking up your family at the airport is going to swing by here and take her with them. That's all right, isn't it?”

“Sure. Will we go too?”

Andrew shook his head. “There isn't room. We'll have to take the train. Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing; it's fine. But . . . maybe the car could take the suit bags?”

“Of course. All right, let's get a move on.” He led the way downstairs, went into his bedroom, and started ransacking a drawer.

“Ah, here it is.” He withdrew a small leather case, opened it, and showed Sid. “ _Dedushka_ Alex's quote unquote modern tuxedo set.”

“Nice.” And it was, actually: not that Sid really knew anything about jewelry.

“It is, isn't it?” Andrew gave it an appraising eye. “You know, now that I look at them again, I wouldn't be surprised if Len—or his father, more likely—made these.”

Interested, Sid took another look, and even touched one of the cuff links. “They're nice and solid, for sure. Maybe when we pick up our rings, you can ask.”

“Good idea.” Andrew took out another case and closed the drawer.

“What's that?”

“A spare set. Just in case.”

Sid had to laugh. “It's two of everything with you, isn't it, Sasha? Two handkerchiefs, two sets of shirt things.”

“It's always best to be prepared. 'If you plan for the worst, all surprises are pleasant ones,' as the saying goes. But for the record? You're not entirely correct, Sidney: there's only one of you. And I quite prefer it that way.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

Sid was so happy when they finally got to their station that he almost jumped off the train. Fixing a smile on his face that he certainly didn't feel, he and Andrew walked down the platform towards the parking area.

“Can I scream now?” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Certainly not,” Andrew said, his own smile firmly in place. “I'm quite sure it's my turn to go first. Let's pick up the pace here, Sidney: and for God's sake, don't make eye contact with anyone. Anyone else, I mean.”

“What, you think I did it deliberately the first time?” If Sid's tone was more than half acid, well, he had reason.

“The first time?” Andrew pretended to consider. “To be honest: yes. Because it's only polite to look at the conductor when he asks for your ticket. Therefore, I certainly don't fault you for that. Nor, for the record, do I fault _you_ for any of the fifty or sixty _other_ people who engaged you in conversation on the train.”

“Well, good.” Sid could see their car now; he sped up a little more. “So why can't I scream first? Can't I have your turn?”

“No.”

Sid prepared to whine, when he noticed. . . . “Oh, fuck!”

“What?”

“A TV van just pulled in.”

Without a word, they both started running. Andrew had the engine started before Sid even got his door open, and was in motion before it closed. He circled around, cutting off at least two other cars, sped up, and then went the wrong way up the ramp to the exit, bypassing all of the other cars already queued up to leave. He careened out to the street, got in the correct lane, and ran a yellow light. Only then did he start driving normally.

“Holy shit, Andrew!”

“Desperate times. I pray to God there are no police cars around. And that nobody captured that little maneuver on film.”

“Where the fuck did you learn to drive like that?”

“In prep school, naturally. A tale for another, less fraught time.”

Sid couldn't help it; he started to laugh. “I honestly can't wait to meet the thugs. You really were a badass, weren't you?”

Andrew's grin was brief but genuine. “Let's just say I had my moments. And that they are well in the past. For the most part. However, some times one can't help but give in to one's atavistic impulses.”

“I have no idea what that last thing means, but I can guess.” Sid relaxed into his seat. “You know what I want as soon as we get back?”

“I could hazard a guess, but what?”

“A nice big Zen Garden.”

“That sounds like a plan. I hope you don't mind if I join you.”

“Nope. In fact, why don't you make a whole pitcher?”

“Don't tempt me,” Andrew laughed. “But as appealing as that idea is: we have the whole family dinner to get through. I'm not going to get stinko beforehand and embarrass myself.”

Sid snorted. “Like you would.”

“I might.” Andrew darted a glance. “I'll be honest, Sidney: I'm a little . . . concerned. About myself, I mean. I don't think I've ever been this stressed. And it's all . . . oh, cumulative, I suppose. And before you say anything: yes, I know I have—and have had—good reasons. But there's been no respite, you know?”

“I know.” Sid thought for a minute. “You know, I'm heading off to do some training soon. And then up to Nova Scotia. Do you want to come with me?”

“Honestly? No. Well, no to the training. I'll be coming up to Nova Scotia at the beginning of August, of course.”

“Come earlier. You can't say it isn't relaxing there.”

“Yes I can. And I do. Well, to a degree. It's nice and peaceful in your house. But we can't stay inside forever. And besides: as long as there's a telephone, a cellular network, or an Internet hookup, we will never escape Dad. Do you know that he hacked my phone, and has started putting reminders and appointments on my calendar? In the interests of efficiency.”

Sid stared. “ _He's_ the one doing that? I thought you were. All of these things kept popping up; I didn't know how to get rid of them. I was really pissed that you made the calendar start working.”

The look Andrew gave Sid could only be called affronted. “Do you honestly think I would do something like that? Really?”

Laughing, Sid reached over and patted Andrew's thigh. “The reminders? No, not really. The whole hacking the phone thing? Sure. It's not like you haven't done it before. The Tone Wars, remember?”

“I'm not likely to forget my victories,” Andrew said smugly.

When he'd finished snickering, Sid decided he should try and clear the air a little more, since Andrew looked halfway to being relaxed again.

“Listen, Sasha: I'm sorry about the whole train thing. And I know it wasn't my fault—as you like to tell me, I'm not responsible for the way other people act—but still, I'm sorry.”

“Apology—unnecessary though it be—accepted gratefully. And I'm sorry you had to endure all of that. It's mystifying to me, Sidney: I'd estimate that more than half of the people who decided their lives would be incomplete without talking to you were wearing caps or other articles of clothing with the Bruins insignia on them. Why on earth would they be so hell-bent on meeting you? The Pens won the third round in four games. Is this some odd form of team loyalty: being magnanimous in defeat?”

“I doubt it.” Sid thought for a minute. “I guess I'd have to say that hockey is a little different from the other major sports. It's the least popular, you know—not that I really understand why, since of course it's the best—but there are a lot of things about hockey that are kind of, um, transcendent. Is that the word I want?”

“I have no idea. Doesn't that mean . . . not quite human? Earthly, I mean. Not part of ordinary, mundane life?”

“Maybe. And maybe that's not the word I want. I guess what I mean is that, for a lot of people, hockey isn't just a game. It's a . . . fuck, I don't know . . . concept? The first loyalty is to the _idea_ of hockey, the whole . . . oh, I can't explain it. Except, maybe it's this: there's hockey and then there's Hockey. With a capital H.”

“I think I understand what you're getting at,” Andrew said after a moment. “But . . . is that not true for all of the sports?”

“I think it's different for hockey. Because . . . well, look at you.”

“I'm driving, so that's not possible.”

Sid bopped him. “Don't be so literal. But seriously: you have absolutely no interest in any other sport except for hockey. And yet, you love hockey. And I know that part of the reason is because of me, but let's face it, Andrew, that's not the only reason. It couldn't be. Hockey speaks to something in you. And you're not alone. I know there are a whole lot of people out there who share your, uh, disinterest in sports. And yet, somehow, they get into hockey. I've had people say to me—mostly women, but a few guys too—that they actually don't understand how it happened, but it did.”

“Well, I can't deny that nobody was more surprised than I when I found myself interested in it. And that was just watching clips on YouTube. Once I saw a live game, I was, I confess, hooked. And you're right: it wasn't just you. So. There's a whole hockey _gestalt_ , then?”

“Maybe. Anyway: to get back to your question, maybe that's why. Because, yeah, I'm the captain of the team that swept the Bruins, but loyalty to hockey itself trumps team loyalty. For some people.”

“Interesting.” After a moment or two, Andrew sighed. “It's time for my apology now. I'm sorry for my reckless driving earlier. I could have caused us a lot of trouble—I still might, actually, if anybody caught it on camera.”

“Don't worry about it. You had a bad day. We both did—I mean, that train ride was hell on wheels—but, what with your friend and all, yours was worse.”

“It was stressful—well, what day hasn't been, lately. But I should have better control of myself. And the train ride was much, much worse for you.”

After thinking about it for a few seconds, Sid said, “I don't think that's true. It was bad for both of us. In different ways.” He made a silent bet with himself.

Andrew made their shorthand gesture for wry face. “Who knew that being invisible was so annoying.”

Sid awarded himself a point. And then said, “I'm sorry, Andrew. I tried a couple of times to include you, but . . . it didn't work.”

“I know. And I appreciate the effort.” He huffed out a semblance of a laugh—one containing almost no amusement. “Almost the worst part of it was that I couldn't do anything but sit there and pretend to be engaged. I thought about starting to read, but I just couldn't let myself be that rude. Not that any of those people learned from my example. Or noticed, probably.”

“Well, if it's any consolation, you did a good job of looking interested.”

“Was it terribly obvious? To you, I mean?”

“Pretty much. Then again, I was kind of on the lookout for it.”

“You were? Why?”

Sid hesitated . . . and then decided to be honest. “Well, we've talked about this before—kind of, anyway. About how I'm not sure it's fair to you to have to deal with all the publicity, and the press, and all that shit.”

“Sidney. We _have_ talked about it. And I told you: it's necessary. If we want to be together—openly together—then we have to deal with things like this.”

“I know. But . . .” and with a mental shrug, Sid committed himself, “it's worse for you. I mean, it _has_ to be worse for you. Worse than it is for me. And . . . worse than it is for the, uh, significant others (and don't roll your eyes at me, I hate that phrase too, but you know what I mean) of anybody else I know in the league. And part of it's the gay thing, but part of it isn't. That part . . . well . . . look, Sasha. You're one of the biggest stars in all of opera. I've _seen_ the way people react when you perform. Every time you perform. That's an incredible amount of validation. I don't get that in an ordinary game. A Cup win, or the Olympics, yes. But not all the time—not even in Canada. And now, when we're together in public, a lot of the time—maybe most of the time—people ignore you. Aren't interested. That _has_ to hurt.”

Sid stopped there and waited. Andrew kept his eyes fixed on the road, but Sid could tell he was clenching his jaw. Suddenly, he flicked on the turn signal, veered to the left and stopped; Sid looked out the window and saw that they were at the bottom of Andrew's parents' incredibly long driveway. He turned his attention back to his fiancé. Who was still staring straight ahead, his posture rigid. After a few seconds, though, he relaxed a little, and turned.

“I'm not entirely sure how to react right now, so in an attempt to clarify my thoughts—not to mention to buy myself some time,” (he grinned slightly, and Sid, heartened, followed suit), “could you say more about why my situation is different from that of all of the other wives and girlfriends? You will, I'm sure, note that the way I've asked my question implicitly eliminates the need to discuss the obvious, which, for the sake of completeness, I will summarize as 'the fact that I have a penis.'”

“Well, like I was saying, you're famous. I mean, really famous.”

“That's true. To a degree. However, I certainly don't think I'm the most famous person ever to marry a NHL player. Or to be involved with one, either. There's more than a few hockey marriages that involve Olympic medalists. But leaving sports figures aside: I'm not even the only performer; there's that country singer who's married to one of the Preds. I'd be willing to wager that many more—probably many millions more—people know her name than know mine. After all,” and he quirked a half-smile, “she's won many more Grammy's than I have. And if we include long-term relationships, there's Julianne Hough, who's a Hollywood 'personality' and therefore, almost by definition, light years more famous than I. I'm not discounting your point—not entirely—but I think there must be more to it than that.”

“Well, you're also rich. Really rich, I mean.”

The look Andrew gave him was truly bewildered. “So? First of all, while I am able to command very high fees when I perform, I doubt they're anywhere near as high as either of the two women I just mentioned. Secondly, the bulk of my wealth comes from private sources, not my career; believe me, my financial situation is not common knowledge. Why would the fact that I'm well-off make my situation _worse_?”

Sid squirmed. “Well . . . okay, Sasha. All league players get a lot of attention. Some get much more than others; I'm in the top tier. But we all get it. And it's something that we talk about. Because it's hard, a lot of the time, to always be under scrutiny. We get paid a lot of money to do what we love to do, and the media is a necessary evil. And when guys get married, or get girlfriends, they come under the microscope too. But something that I've heard from a bunch of guys—a big bunch of guys, actually—is that there's this . . . what's the phrase when a bargain goes two ways?”

“ _Quid pro quo_?”

“I was thinking of something in English, but that works. The guys get . . . a partner, a wife, companionship, a family, usually, and a house that's actually a home, not a place to store gear in between games. And the women get something too: they get a husband who's almost never there for three-quarters of the year (and when he is there, he's either half-drunk because he's winning, horny, depressed because he's losing, hurting because he's injured, or some combination of those things). And they get access to a lot of money. And they get a name. They're . . . celebrities too. Kind of. And most of them, or a lot of them, anyway, from what I've been told, _like_ that. They want to go out—to fancy restaurants and social events—to be seen and talked about. It helps make up for . . . stuff.”

“That,” Andrew interrupted, “is one of the most cynical descriptions of marriage I have ever heard. What about love?”

“Love? Love is great. Love is wonderful. There are real love matches in hockey. Flower and Vero, to name just one. But true love matches are rare in real life, I guess, and maybe even rarer in hockey. Because the realities of being in a hockey marriage often lead to divorce. If I've heard one guy say it, I've heard two dozen: love isn't always enough.”

Andrew opened his mouth, but Sid talked over him. “Now to talk specifically about us? About you? You already have all the fame you need. Or want, if I had to guess. You're not a movie star like whatever her name is, and I don't think I'm wrong when I say that you don't feel like you constantly need to be under the spotlight to help your career. And you for sure don't need money; I make more money than you do, I guess, but I'll bet you're worth a fuckton more than I am. So let's summarize: you get the constant scrutiny, which is upped to the nth degree because we're gay, and at the same time, you get ignored. Your accomplishments don't matter. Not one person on the train tonight asked you anything about _you_ ; the only questions you were asked were about _me._ ”

He unclenched his fists before he continued. “I've been lying awake at night thinking about this, Andrew. I love you. I know you love me. I happen to think—no, I _believe—_ that we are one of those cases of true love. Like your grandmother predicted. I think we _are_ soul mates. But what about . . . well, remember the awards? Our love isn't real love. Because we're gay. Now, maybe you convinced that asshole, and maybe you didn't. But despite all the lip service the fucking NHL gives to _You Can Play_ , I'm here to tell you that he's not the only one who feels that way. And in what fucking universe did he think it was okay to actually say that to your face? I know what you said at the time, but believe me, the stuff he's said to me on the ice since February was not at all motivated by a desire to understand. So, between the homophobia and the . . . I don't know, just plain _rudeness_ of people everywhere we go not seeing you as a person, of ignoring you, and your career, and your accomplishments, you're always being bombarded with inconvenience and emotional pain. You're forever being devalued. So I have to ask myself, Andrew,” and Sid took a deep breath, “what do you get out of being in a relationship with me? Or maybe a better way to say it is, how can you stand what being in a relationship with me does to you?”

Andrew treated Sid to one of the most penetrating stares he had ever experienced; his usually expressive face was a mask, revealing nothing. He didn't move; he didn't even blink. After a minute or so, he said, in as careful a tone as Sid had ever heard from him, “Sidney. I am going to ask you one question. And I am afraid that I must insist on your answering it. And I must also inform you that I insist upon total, complete honesty.” He paused, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

Sid swallowed. Then he nodded. Agreed.

“Is this your way of telling me that you no longer wish to marry me?”

Sid managed to keep his jaw from dropping into his lap, but it was a close thing. And evidently, Andrew could read his astonishment, because his face lost a little of its impassiveness. But he remained silent, waiting. So Sid gave him what he'd asked for.

“Fuck, no! Absolutely not! It's my way of asking if _you_ still want to marry _me!_ ”

Andrew sagged a little—in relief, Sid guessed, although he couldn't really read it in his face. He then closed his eyes as he said, “I'm . . . quite glad to hear your answer to my question.”

“Well, good.” Sid fidgeted. “Are you going to answer mine?”

Andrew opened his eyes. “I was not aware that you asked me a question, actually.”

“It maybe wasn't said like one. But it was still a question.”

“An indirect one, perhaps. Very well, Sidney. The answer to your question is 'yes.' And now it's my turn.” But instead of saying anything, he shifted in his seat and looked out the car window for a bit; when he turned back, Sid had no trouble at all reading the expression on his face. Except . . . it didn't make a lot of sense.

“Sidney. There are many, many things I could say right now. There are more than a few things I intend to say to you—if not immediately, then in the very near future. At length. However, this situation calls for a question—in the interests of equity, one might say. So: do you truly understand me so little?”

Sid winced; he remembered Elisabeth saying those exact words to Andrew, and how _he_ had reacted. Now he knew himself. And he knew that Andrew had probably—okay, had definitely—repeated them deliberately. He wasn't sure what to say, but Andrew apparently wasn't in the mood to wait for an answer.

“You know what? Fuck equity. Do you have any idea how insulted I feel right now? Have I ever given you the impression that I am the sort of person who gives up when things become difficult? Do you honestly believe that what I feel for you deserves to be compared to some run-of-the-mill, quasi-emotional transaction? For that matter, do you devalue—to use your word—your own feelings for me to that degree? You have given me your heart, Sidney, and I have given you mine. Not in return. Not in compensation. There is no _quid pro quo_ between us—at least, not in my view, and until five minutes ago, I would have sworn not in yours.”

He gave Sid a laser-sharp assessing glare that seemed to weigh his soul and find it lacking. “Where is all of this crap coming from? What delusions are you entertaining? In what universe would our relationship—no, our married life together— _ever_ resemble that sad picture you just painted? Do you think that it's likely that in the near future we'll be able to spend months together, the way we did this year? I certainly don't—especially now that I know my voice is okay. And even if it weren't: do you think I would be content with being a homemaker? Only that, and nothing more? Or, I suppose, to extrapolate from what you said, that and becoming the public face of gay hockey spousal support? Allow me to disabuse you of that notion, Captain Crosby. If, in fact, I need to, since I actually cannot believe you would want such a thing. Unless I am very much mistaken, you take as much pride in my career and my success as I do in yours, and I _know_ , with as much certainty as I know my name, that my happiness is as important to you as yours is to me. And furthermore. . . .”

He paused for a second or two. “To shift the emphasis a little: I don't believe for a minute that you want a homemaker for a husband. Yes, there are drawbacks to our both being so successful. We've talked about them. We've lived through a year and a half of that reality. We don't get to spend enough time together in person. Often, our only contact for weeks at a time is over the phone. And that sucks, Sidney.”

“Not in a good way,” Sid managed to interject.

“Indeed.” The look Andrew graced him with this time was more approving. Or . . . less disapproving, anyway. “But it's our reality. To deny it . . . would be to deny ourselves. Who we are. And neither of us would be willing to do that. Or am I mistaken?”

“No, Sasha, you're not. And I know that you're not really talking about this, but . . . I came out because I didn't want to deny who I was any more. And I didn't want to deny how important you were . . . no, _are_ . . . either. I'm done with denial. Well,” he amended, “as done with denial as anybody in therapy for OCD can be. And as done with it as anybody who's spent years making it his life's work can be. It's . . . one of my demons, like I guess _your_ therapist would say.”

“She probably would. And speaking of demons: I am not, as I'm sure you're aware, the easiest person to live with.”

“I'm not either,” Sid managed to grin. A little.

“Precisely. But—and correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think I am—we neither of us have any trouble doing so. We make accommodations for each other, Sidney: because of our careers, because of circumstances, and because of life's realities. And, speaking for myself right now, while I wish some things were different—such as the fact that sometimes I spend more hours on a plane heading to and from where you are than I do actually getting to be with you—it's worth it because of how happy every single hour we manage together makes me. When we're alone, at any rate: I would not willingly repeat that train ride any time soon.

“Now then: I've asked you a ton of questions, but I'm going to repeat the one that I think is most important: where is all of this coming from? Explain yourself to me, please.”

Sid made a face. “You would pick the hardest question.”

“You enjoy a challenge. Rise to it.”

Andrew's tone was implacable, so Sid bowed to the inevitable. “In no particular order: no, I don't want a little house husband. And I want nothing more than to be married to you for the rest of my life. But I am who I am, Andrew. Accept all the hockey stuff as a given. More important: I am . . . insecure . . . about almost everything else in the world _except_ for hockey. And when bad things happen—and that train ride comes to mind as a _very_ bad thing—and I see you being hurt . . . I want to protect you. Make things better for you. But . . . I can't always do that. I _couldn't_ do that on the train. And it makes me . . . well, unhappy. And a lot of other things, too. Some of which feed into my . . . well, some of my oldest, or strongest, insecurities. And it creates, uh, a feedback loop, I guess. The reality that the insecurities create isn't really reality, or the reality that I want, but . . . it's the reality that's there. If that makes any sense.”

“I think it does,” Andrew said, after a somewhat lengthy pause. “The discontinuity between those realities is what, I would wager, lies in the stark difference in the two versions of the question you asked me earlier: how can I stand being in a relationship with you, and how can I stand what being in a relationship with you does to me. And I feel it incumbent upon myself to remind you that even as you said them, you indicated that the second version was . . . better, I think was the word you used. But both formulations have one thing in common: they both indicate that the bad things are outside forces. Don't blame yourself for things out of your control. I don't blame you for them. Well, not if I'm being rational. Which, I will admit,” and the grin this time was much more like Andrew's usual one, “seems to be happening less and less these days. Still, though, even at my worst, I've _never_ thought that you were doing anything to make me unhappy.”

“Well, thanks. I'm . . . glad to hear that.”

“Good. Because it's the truth. Now then: enlighten me a bit more. You said that your inability to make things better for me has been making you unhappy. And a lot of other things, too. What are the other things?”

“Why is it,” Sid asked plaintively, “that almost everybody I know always asks me the exact questions I least want to answer?”

Without missing a beat, Andrew replied, “I certainly can't speak for anybody else. But in my case? It makes me very unhappy to hear that you're unhappy. Or in distress. So naturally, I want to know all about it. In case there's anything I can do.”

Sid shook his head. “There's nothing you can do, Andrew. It's . . . what? Why do you have that look on your face all of a sudden?”

“What look?”

“That look. Like you just won an argument.”

“Do I? Or, perhaps I should ask, did I?” He levied an exaggeratedly enquiring eyebrow in Sid's direction.

Sid replayed the conversation back in his mind. Oh.

Despite himself, he started to laugh. “Fuck you, Andrew! God!”

Andrew joined in. When they both wound down, though, he said, “Do I need to make sure we understand each other?”

Rolling his eyes, Sid said, “No. I get it. 'Nothing I can do' is not worse than 'nothing you can do.' Okay? Let's move on.”

“Fine. But don't think we won't continue this conversation later. You're too hard on yourself, _mon oie_ ; you always have been, in my experience. Don't forget that.”

“Fine,” Sid huffed. But only a little. Thinking about that afternoon, he added, “As long as _you_ don't forget that you can't take care of everything for everybody you care about.”

“I can't? Why not? You seem to think you can.”

“No, I don't. I only want to be able to. And only for you, to be honest. That's a big difference.”

“It's not only for me. And if you doubt that, feel free to solicit a second and third opinion from Mom and Dad. But . . . I want you to know that I truly appreciate your desire to protect me. And I'm not lying when I say that more than a few times, I've thought of you as my white knight.”

That, more than anything else that had happened since they'd left the tailor's shop, made Sid very, very happy.

**********

Andrew glanced at the dashboard clock. “We should head up to the house; your family should be arriving soon, and we're blocking the way.”

“Okay. What's doing tonight, anyway? Last I heard, there were a couple of different plans.”

“Well, fortunately Mom convinced Dad to go with something low-key—given how formal tomorrow night is going to be.” He laughed. “According to Taylor, your father nearly had a fit when he heard that the party was going to be black tie. And _she_ had a fit when she found out she had to wear an evening dress.”

Sid tried—without too much difficulty—to imagine that scene. And snickered. “Did my mom manage to make her get one?”

“Nope,” Andrew said, striving for a straight face. “Your mother called mine, and asked her to take care of it.”

Laughing outright, Sid said, “My mom has a good sense of tactics. Which, if I've never told you before, is something she once said about you.”

“Really? When?”

Sid was about to answer when his phone went off. He made a face but checked anyway. Surprised, he announced, “It's Jon,” and accepted the call. He'd barely said hello before his phone beeped with another call—which he ignored, since “Call Waiting” was another invention that should have been stifled at birth. Or its inventor should have been.

Andrew's own phone rang as he was parking the car; leaving the keys in the ignition, he got out and answered it.

Sid, meanwhile, was having a little trouble dealing with Jon. “Why is this a good idea?”

“Because it is,” Jon said.

“Uh, that's not really a good answer.”

“Sid.” Judging from his tone, there was no universe in which any of Jon's answers weren't good ones. It was also condescending as all fuck; Sid wanted to kick him. “First of all, it is. Second of all, it's efficient; if we do this, then there can't possibly be anything else to ask any of us. I don't want to lose any more of the offseason than I have already.”

Sid snorted. “Tell me about it.”

“Hey, you're getting married; you asked for that. And finally, it's for a good cause.”

Sid groaned. “Well, I can't argue with that one, anyway. Although: to be honest, Jon, I think you're delusional if you actually believe your second point.”

“I'm trying to think positively,” Jon said, in an unbelievably snotty tone. Compared to Andrew, he was a piker, but Sid didn't think he'd appreciate hearing that. Even though he knew Andrew would.

He glanced out the window; Andrew was pacing up and down, looking . . . excited about something. Sid hoped it was good news; he could use some.

He started paying attention again when he heard his name being repeated. Impatiently, this time.

“Sorry. We're at Andrew's parents; it's . . . kind of in the woods. What was that?”

“Can you do it next Tuesday?”

Sighing, Sid accepted the inevitable. “I guess. Send me the details.”

“How about Andrew?”

“What about Andrew?”

“Can he do it on Tuesday?”

Sid opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“Sid? Are you there?”

Wishing he wasn't, he answered, “Yeah. Why . . . Jon, what the fuck? Why would they want Andrew to do this? More important, why the fuck would _Andrew_ want to do this?”

Jon started blathering but Sid barely listened. His phone beeped again, and he was almost tempted to try and answer it, but he knew Jon would just call him back. Using something other than his earnest “let me explain all of the reasons why I'm right” tone of voice. Then something Jon was saying actually caught his attention.

“Wait. What was that last thing?”

“Are you listening to me?” If he talked to Kane like that, it was no wonder they fought all the time.

“I told you, I'm in the woods.” Close enough; there were trees nearby. “What did you say about Kane?”

“I _said_ ,” Jon said, in what he probably imagined was a patient tone but which made Sid want to kick him again, “Kaner told the _You Can Play_ people that we wouldn't do it unless they included Andrew.” There was a slight pause. “And I agree with him.”

Sid ruthlessly resisted the impulse to ask how much that admission had hurt. Was he actually going to have to do this? Who made up that rule that captains have to go down with their ship, he wondered. Inanely.

Earnest Jon was back, so Sid interrupted him. “All right. Fine. But. . . .” Mentally, he strategized. Maybe some of the truth would work. “Listen, Jon. Andrew's really stressed out right now.” He gave Jon a brief recap of their train ride. “I honestly don't know if he'll agree. I've been asking a lot of him lately. . . .” He paused invitingly. And waited. “I really hate having to ask him to do something like this.” Christ, Jon was being as thick as a brick!

“Sid, I'm sure if you remind him what a good cause this is, he'll agree. I mean, his father supports it, right?”

Sid gave up. He was about to agree to ask Andrew himself when he thought of one last option. “Yeah, he does. But . . . you know, I just think it'd sound better coming from someone else; he might feel obligated if I do it. Why don't you have Kane ask him?” Ignoring Jon's scoff, Sid played his trump card. “Since it was his idea to begin with, he'll probably do it better than anybody else.”

Less than two minutes later, Sid ended the call, satisfied. Jon really _was_ the most competitive person he'd ever met.

He snagged the car keys, got out and stretched, and nodded when Andrew gave him a “one minute” gesture. Idly, he looked at his phone to see who had called: Tommy (no message). There was also a text from Brad: everything was all set for tomorrow; pleased, Sid wrote, “C U then.”

“Was that Bradley?” Sid asked when Andrew pocketed his phone.

“It was. With good news. He's found me something to keep me busy while you're off training.”

Sid smirked at him. “Don't you mean something to keep you from murdering your dad when I'm not here to do it myself?”

“Details, details,” Andrew said airily. “Actually, I'm working on something else to accomplish that. No, this is just a one-shot. A private charity event in New York in a couple of weeks; the singer originally scheduled to appear withdrew rather abruptly. It's not the sort of thing I would normally do, but it's for a good cause, and I hate to think of them being left in the lurch. Bradley told me that when he said I might be available, the organizers almost wept with joy. Plus, on a more personal—and totally uncharitable—level,” he lowered his voice confidingly, “the tenor I'm replacing hates me. The fact that I'm taking over will truly burn him. Because I'm a _much_ bigger draw than he is. So—assuming I do a decent job—it's a win-win situation for everybody.”

“Why does he hate you?” Sid asked after he'd stopped laughing; he really loved Andrew's uncharitable side.

“Because I won the competition in Paris,” Andrew said simply. “He thought he was going to. To be honest: if I hadn't entered, he probably would have. He's quite good. It's a real pity he's so obnoxious.” He sounded so self-satisfied that Sid laughed again.

“What did Jonathan want?”

“To ask me to do something. Which I'm not going to tell you about yet, because, just to give you a heads-up, he's going to call you and ask you too.” Sid wondered if his strategy was going to pay off or backfire on him. Then he wondered how the hell an eyebrow could radiate such skepticism.

“Is this something I would want to do? And why on earth is he asking me, and not you?”

“Answer one: I don't really know. You might. It might make your dad happy, too, and it's not even wedding-related. Answer two: that's not really the right question. I was just about to tell him that I would ask you when . . .” he paused for effect, “I guess Jon decided he could ask you better. Than anyone else.” Which was the absolute truth.

A splutter of laughter. “Well. Something to look forward to, perhaps. The asking, at any rate. When is he going to call?”

“He said soon.” Sid stretched again, and then yanked Andrew in for a hug. “I'm glad you have this gig to look forward to. I bet it'll do you good to be in front of an audience again. Uh, on a more regular basis, I guess I should say.” He grinned. “Routines can sometimes be a real good thing.”

**********

“Daniel,” Sid's father said with a groan, pushing his plate away, “I think you missed your calling. You should ditch the whole technology thing and open up a restaurant. I haven't had barbecue this good in . . . well, ever.”

Daniel looked down, embarrassed, but Sid could tell he was pleased. “I'm glad you liked it.”

“It was incredible, Daniel,” Taylor chimed in. “And I'm sure Sid will tell you that too, as soon as he's done with his _fourth_ helping.”

“I'm ignoring you,” Sid announced, once he'd finished swallowing. Much to the amusement of everybody else.

Sid reached across the table and snagged a couple of additional napkins; even leaving the food aside, it had been a wonderful meal. Everybody in both families was getting along great, which made him happy; he just hoped things went as well when the rest of Daniel's family was in the picture.

“So, tell us, Daniel,” Sid's mother spoke up, “what do you have planned for tomorrow? Before your parents' party, I mean.”

“ _I_ don't have anything planned,” Daniel said, with a trace of a grin. “I was informed that I'm off duty.”

Elisabeth leaned over to pat her husband. “You do need to relax a bit, darling. We all do. So, that's what the agenda is for tomorrow. I've reserved a lovely little spa for the afternoon. Anyone who wants to may get a massage, or sit in the sauna; there are many available options. I highly recommend what they call the foot clinic; Miss Ruthie and I went a few months ago.”

“I can't tell you how much I enjoyed it,” Miss Ruthie said; “afterwards, my feet felt twenty years younger than the rest of me. And even at my age, that's a large percentage!”

Everybody laughed; both Elisabeth and Daniel had been—obviously—thrilled to see her, and she and Sid's grandma were getting along great.

“If anyone wants to do a little sightseeing in the morning,” Elisabeth went on, “either locally or in Boston, just let me know. Of course, I know that Sidney's going to go skating in the morning, and I assume, Taylor, that you'll go too.”

“I was planning on it,” Taylor said; “Sid told me to bring my gear.”

“And anyone else who wants to come is welcome,” Sid threw in. “Unless, of course, you're a person whose name begins with the letter A. In that case, you _have_ to come.”

“I said I would, didn't I?” Andrew's tone was fond, if a little exasperated. “But I wish you would get it through your pointy little head that while I do like to skate, there is a difference between doing that and attempting to push a puck around.”

“You're a lot better than you think,” Sid informed him. “And anyway: we won't really be playing. Seriously.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. Ostentatiously.

“Who else is coming, Sid? And what time are we doing this?”

“Well, Eli—Andrew's cousin—and some of his friends, or teammates, whatever, are coming. Eli's really good,” Sid told his sister. “And it'll be in the morning; Brad—Brad Marchand—arranged for a couple of hours of private ice time starting around 9:30. He said a couple of other guys might come with him; he didn't know who was still around.” He laughed a little. “And who else might be willing to come, given, uh, the third round.” He started counting in his head.

Taylor opened her mouth, but Andrew got in first.

“Excuse me?”

Attempting to look innocent, Sid turned towards his fiancé.

“Spare me that 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' facade, Captain Crosby. Let me see if I understand you correctly. You invited Eli. His friends and/or teammates. Brad Marchand, and any other of the Bruins he could make promise not to murder you. Not that they'll have a chance, because I may very well do it for them. Sidney! In what universe does this translate into not playing seriously?”

“It won't be serious,” Sid promised; “it can't be.”

“And precisely why can't it be?”

Andrew, Sid reflected, could make exaggerated patience into a lethal weapon; he was really so much better at it than Jon Toews.

“Because we'll only be using practice gear. By definition, that's not serious.”

“I see. Well, then. Since I don't own any gear—practice or otherwise—I'll be perfectly content watching from the stands.”

Sid was trying really hard not to smirk; he couldn't really say the same for most of the other people watching this interchange. Avidly.

Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Would I be correct in assuming,” he asked, in tones that mingled politeness and acerbity so sharply that they could probably draw blood, “that I, in fact, _do_ own practice gear?”

“You'll love the sweater,” Sid assured him; “this one says 'Copley' on it.” He smiled widely. “Happy birthday, Sasha!”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the honor of your presence is requested. . . .

“Oh my God,” Taylor groaned, not for the first time, “this was _such_ a good idea!”

She and Sid were luxuriating in the . . . well, what Sid would call a hot tub; it probably had a much fancier name here. Andrew was still in the foot clinic, so they were alone.

“It was,” Sid agreed. “I mean, this is not the first time I've had a massage after a practice, but, well, it's a little different when it's your trainers doing it.”

“I could so get used to this,” Taylor told him. “And what makes it even better? Is that it's just us. And everybody who works here just wants to take care of us. If you ever tell Mom I said this, I'll kill you, but . . . sometimes it's nice to be pampered, and have scented oil rubbed all over you instead of liniment. It's like . . . it's okay to be girly in here.”

Sid held his hand out. “I promise I won't tell. If you promise the same thing.” They laughed as they shook on it.

“Something else you can't tell Mom? Right now, I'm not even dreading wearing that dress tonight.”

“Oh, we're going to have to negotiate on that one,” Sid teased her. And then laughed again when she tried to kick him.

“So, did you have fun this morning?”

“Duh. Did you?”

“For sure.”

“You were right, by the way: Eli is really good.”

Sid smiled proudly—which was maybe a little weird, but whatever.

“You think he'll go pro? Or try to?”

“I don't know,” Sid said, after thinking it over, not for the first time. “If he does, though, I bet it'd be after college; from what I can tell, Andrew's the only person in that entire family who doesn't have a degree.” He hesitated, and then gave a mental shrug. “The Bruins run a training session every summer. It's insanely competitive. Eli's a little young—I think you have to be 16—but . . . well, let's just say that we weren't the only hockey players there who were impressed.”

Taylor nodded. And then studied Sid.

“What?”

“You're different.”

Not that Sid disagreed, but. . . . “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. You're . . . well, you're still you. My clueless older brother. But . . . okay, this'll probably sound stupid, but . . . you stand up straighter.”

“Andrew will be sorry to hear that,” Sid informed her in his best monotone. And then accepted the splash he knew was coming with a grin.

“You're such a dork. I take it back: you're exactly the same as you ever were.”

“No, I'm really not,” Sid said, reverting to his normal voice. “And you probably know that better than almost anyone.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes, and saw her nod.

“I guess. It's a good thing, Squid; I'm happy for you.”

“Well, thanks. But . . . what made you tell me this now?”

Taylor grimaced at him. “I have to make a reservation to tell you I'm happy for you?”

“You know that's not what I meant. Come on, Tay: tell me.”

“Oh, all right.” She fell silent then, for a space, clearly trying to marshal her thoughts. “I guess . . . well, part of it's the coming out. Obviously. I can't really imagine what it was like keeping that whole side of yourself hidden.”

Hesitating only for a second or two, during which he quickly scanned the area to make sure they were still alone, he said, “It wasn't great. And I didn't realize exactly how hard it was until after I met Andrew.” Another sweep of the room. “To be honest, Tay, keeping the OCD under wraps was harder. In a lot of ways.”

“How's that going?”

“All right. I guess.” Sid sighed. “My doctor's . . . uh, a little pissed at me right now.”

“Why?”

There was no way Sid was going to say anything detailed, but. . . . “Well, you know Andrew came to all of the playoff games, right?”

She nodded.

“Well, he did that to help me. For, uh, moral support, I guess you could say.”

“Why does she have a problem with that?”

“She doesn't. Exactly.” Sid squirmed. “I actually don't know what the issue is. Maybe it's that she feels I wasn't honest with her. 'Cause I didn't tell her he came to the away games until after we won. Or it could be something else. All I know is that somewhere in there, I crossed a line, somehow. And I can't exactly figure out where. Or how, maybe. And she won't tell me. She says I have to figure it out for myself.”

Taylor's brow was creased. “Well, I don't see why . . . oh. I get it.”

“You do? What?”

She smirked. “I can't tell you.”

Exasperated, Sid informed her, “Of course you _can_ ; you just won't.” And then he jerked his head around when he heard applause.

“Bravo, Sidney!” It was, of course, Andrew. With an obnoxiously self-satisfied look on his face. “It's so nice to know that my grammar lessons are actually making an impression!”

Sid made a rude gesture, and Andrew laughed as he dropped his robe and slid into the water. And immediately leaned over and gave Sid a kiss. A lengthy kiss. Not to mention, thorough.

Sid was much more in charity with him when he finally moved back. “How are your feet?”

“Mighty fine.” He lifted them out of the water and wiggled his toes. “And yours?”

“They feel good,” Sid admitted. Then he grinned. “It's not like my feet don't get worked over. But it's usually not in as fancy a setting as this.”

Andrew laughed. “I know. Eli—who will be joining us shortly—told me that he now knows what he wants for his birthday: a gift certificate to the foot clinic.” He treated Sid to an inquiring eyebrow. “Or do we already know what we're giving him?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Sid smiled, closing his eyes. And ignored the snorts coming from either side of him.

“Okay, Squid: what's going on? Why have you practically adopted Andrew's cousin?”

“I haven't,” Sid said airily. “He has perfectly nice parents of his own.” Opening one eye, he added, “Who come from the nice side of Daniel's family. If I haven't mentioned that already.”

“You have. More than once, too. And you haven't answered my other question. What's going on?”

Sighing, Sid opened the other eye. “Nothing's going on. What, I can't like someone? Tay, this is not the first time I've encouraged a teenage hockey player.”

“Not like this.” Sid ignored her, so she turned her attention to Andrew. “Do you know what's going on?”

“Not really,” Andrew shrugged, “but does it matter?”

“Thank you,” Sid said emphatically. And then looked triumphantly at Taylor. Who was shaking her head. At Andrew, this time.

“You're incredible. How can you not be curious?”

“I didn't say I wasn't curious,” Andrew corrected, “but I don't think I need to know Sidney's motivation for every last thing he does. Besides,” he said practically, “Eli is one of my favorite cousins. He's obviously thrilled by Sidney's little . . . treats. Why do I need to know more than that? And furthermore, I don't think Sidney's acting all that uncharacteristically; he's an incredibly generous person, particularly when hockey is involved.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. I won't even mention that I could probably count the number of people Sid would do something like this for on both of my hands, and still have my middle fingers free to give him a salute. Let's move on. Andrew, I want to tell you something.”

“Yes?”

“You're actually not bad on the ice. For somebody who's never played before this year? I was honestly impressed.”

Andrew was—visibly—pleased. “Why, thank you, Taylor; I appreciate hearing that. Although,” and he cut his eyes towards Sid, “I might have appreciated it more if you'd given me that compliment out of your brother's hearing. Mark my words, he's going to use it as a cudgel.”

“Of course I won't,” Sid interjected; “you're so obsessed with eating right, I know I'd get much better results if I used a carrot instead of a stick.” He met Andrew's look blandly. And then yelped when Andrew's hand darted in and pinched his ass.

“Can't take you two anywhere, can we?” Eli commented, sliding into the water. He then sighed deeply. “God, this feels good.”

“That was a hard hit you took,” Taylor commented.

“I've taken harder,” Eli shrugged.

Sid approved of his nonchalance. Andrew, on the other hand, rolled his eyes.

“Spoken like a true hockey player.”

“That means a lot coming from you, Cousin Andrew,” Eli chirped. “Thanks!”

Everybody laughed.

“Speaking of: Cousin Andrew, I have to tell you something.”

“All right.”

“The way you were complaining in the car going to the rink this morning, I was thinking you'd be a total disaster. But you weren't. I mean, considering who else was playing?” He shook his head admiringly. “I was impressed.”

Eli's compliment seemed to please Andrew even more than Taylor's had.

“Well, that's very nice to hear. Thank you, Eli.”

“How come you listen to them, but not to me?” Sid wasn't really insulted, but he pretended to be. “I've been playing a little longer than either of them, you know.”

Andrew grinned at him. “That's quite true. And ordinarily, I would accept your opinion about anything to do with hockey as if it were gospel. However . . . let's just say that when it involves getting me on the ice with you, Sidney, I do have reason to mistrust your motives.”

Well. Sid couldn't really deny that. “I guess that's true. But . . . seriously, Sasha: I wouldn't lie to you. You're not as bad as you think. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you've been playing longer than you have. You have maybe the most important fundamental of hockey down pat. Right?” he appealed to his sister and Eli, both of whom nodded in agreement.

Cue the eyebrows. “I do? Would you care to enlighten me?”

“Sure. You don't hold back. I mean, you were totally outclassed this morning. But you still tried. You waded in, whenever you thought you had a chance. With more experience, you might have done more. But you committed yourself. You weren't tentative. And you acted . . . well, let's just say that you didn't show fear. You took a couple of hard hits yourself.”

“And gave a couple too,” Eli said with a grin. “Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but I think Brad had a bet with the other Bruins. I saw them handing him some cash afterwards, and one of them said, 'okay, okay, he's not a pussy.'” The minute the words came out of his mouth, he blushed bright red. As soon as the others had stopped laughing, he blurted out to Taylor, “I'm so sorry!”

“I do play hockey, you know,” Taylor told him. “Besides: you probably heard me say worse than that this morning.”

“Well, I did,” Eli said, “but still: we're not on the ice right now. Plus: it's a demeaning term, and I'm trying not to use those any more.”

“That's laudable, Eli,” Andrew reassured him, “but strictly speaking, you didn't use it: you were simply quoting.”

Eli gave him a searching look, and then a lopsided grin. “I guess. Still: it's rude.”

“Are you sure you're not Canadian?” Taylor asked him; “you're too polite to be an American.”

“What does that make you, Tay?” Sid asked her. And grabbed her elbow before it could connect. Taylor tried to wrest it away, but when she couldn't manage it, she took the high road and simply ignored him.

“Moving on: let's talk strategy here. What can I expect tonight, Andrew? And how are we going to play it?”

“Team Daniel for the win!” Eli cried out. Sid laughed, leaned forward, and bumped fists with him.

“Well, duh. Of course. But seriously: I've never been to a party like this. What's it going to be like?”

“I'm not sure, exactly,” Andrew said slowly. “They stopped hosting engagement parties when I was very young, so I've never been to one. It'll be formal, obviously, which probably means boring. The whole family will be there, or so I imagine; half of the family is nice, and the other half is . . . less so. And then there'll be family friends: people like Miss Ruthie. Simon's coming, of course,” he told Sid in an aside. “And Julia and her husband. And Bradley.”

“Who's he bringing?” Sid asked innocently—or as innocently as he could.

“I have no idea. I was going to ask, but decided I'd rather be surprised. Anyway: the rest of the people will probably be friends of my grandparents. Or former business associates. Probably some politicians,” and he rolled his eyes.

Eli laughed. “My parents still tell the story about the big fight that broke out at their engagement party.”

“Mine do too.” Andrew shook his head. “It was one of the few times Grandfather ever took Dad's side.”

“You're kidding, right?” Sid asked him.

“I'm not.”

“What the hell was the fight about?”

“Healthcare benefits for gay and lesbian domestic partners. SCE sued the state of Massachusetts to try and get them to change the laws that didn't allow businesses to provide them. It was a very big deal at the time; in fact, it was a crucial step in what eventually became the fight for same-sex marriage. Which, in case you've forgotten, happened first in Massachusetts. I gather that the subject came up at the party, which was held right after Boston's Gay Pride parade. SCE's participation in the parade got a lot of media time.” He laughed. “You know, sometimes I can't quite wrap my mind around the fact that I marched in those parades before I even suspected I was gay. Anyway: one of the local lawmakers was adamantly opposed to the idea. He made the mistake of . . . well, speaking rather intemperately on the topic. I believe he thought he was among fellow thinkers; instead, Grandfather threw him out. Essentially. After saying a few choice words to him. Rather loudly, I understand.”

“Wait a minute.” Taylor was a little confused. “I thought your grandfather was a real asshole.”

“He can be,” Eli chimed in. “But not on social stuff like that. On gay rights, he's more liberal than my other grandparents, and they're, like, über-Democrats. Cousin Andrew, did I tell you that when I came out to Grandfather, he actually hugged me? And Grandmother called me 'Eli,' and not 'child.'” He laughed. “All I could think of was that line from the bar mitzvah ceremony: 'today I am a man!'”

Andrew burst out laughing. “When I came out to him, he hugged me too. And then he offered to throw me a coming out party. For the record: I declined.”

“He made a $5,000 contribution to my school's quilt bag alliance,” Eli informed him. “And he insisted that I come to the party tonight. He even paid for my tux.”

Sid looked at Taylor. Taylor looked at Sid. And said, shaking her head, “Rich people are weird.”

**********

“How much fucking starch does your laundry put in these things?” Sid bitched, wrestling with the collar button. “I can't even get it off the hanger.”

“Stop complaining,” Andrew told him. “We all have to make sacrifices for beauty. You will be the most fetching man there tonight.”

“Hardly,” Sid snorted, still struggling.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Give me that, Sidney,” he ordered. “And while I'm doing this: where's your tuxedo set?”

Sid reached into his suitcase. “Here. I'll trade you.” He fumbled his right arm into its sleeve, then stopped in mid-motion. “What's that look of horror for?”

“Sidney: these are _plastic_!”

“So? No one can tell.”

“That's it: the wedding's off.” Andrew dropped the studs onto the bed and ostentatiously wiped his hands.

“Don't be such a drama queen.”

“If you think for one minute that I am going to let you wear those offensive articles tonight, you are sadly mistaken.”

Sid considered sticking to his guns, for form's sake, but decided it wasn't worth it. “Fine. I'll wear your spare set. Unless I'll be mixing platinum with gold.” He rolled his eyes. “And you know: I could have lived the rest of my life without knowing that was even an issue.”

“The NHL should add socializing classes to its media training,” Andrew informed him. “And you most certainly will not mix metals.” He crossed to the dresser, and tossed Sid a small box. “Here. Happy birthday. A little early.”

Sid looked at Andrew, and then at the box. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Go on, look inside. Not that it'll be a surprise now.”

Sid opened the box and stared.

“The cuff links are sticks!” he exclaimed, delighted; he touched one with his forefinger.

“They are. And the studs are pucks. Presumably.”

Sid held one up. “They are! Sasha, this is so great!”

“Do you really like them?”

“I do! For sure!” And Sid swept Andrew up into a hug, and squeezed him as hard as he could. “Thank you so much!”

“You're very welcome, _mon oie_.” Andrew returned the squeeze with interest. “I'm so happy you're pleased.”

“I am so much more than pleased,” Sid pronounced. “I love them! Where the fuck did you find them?”

Andrew laughed. “In New York. When I sang there last fall. I was taking a walk, and happened to glance in the window of an antique store. I stopped dead in my tracks. And after I got a good look, I knew I had to get them for you. I thought about giving them to you for Christmas last year,” he admitted, “but . . . oh, I don't know. They seemed like more of a birthday present, somehow. And then, after you didn't propose to me? I was so happy I'd held on to them. I imagined you'd wear them first at our wedding, but the party tonight works just as well.”

“Well, I'm thrilled. Honestly. Here: help me put them on.”

When they were both completely dressed, Andrew drew Sid over to the mirror, where they stood side by side.

Andrew made a happy noise. “We make a most dashing couple, don't you think, Sidney?”

“I was going to say that we clean up well. But dashing works.” He leaned over and stole a quick kiss. And then sighed. “As much as I'd prefer to stay here and undress you: I guess we should head downstairs.”

“I suppose.” Andrew made a minuscule adjustment to Sid's bow tie. “Do you have everything?”

Sid checked for wallet as Andrew did the same. “I guess.” He picked up his phone and slid it in his breast pocket. The movement reminded him. . . . “Oh, hold on. One more thing.” He went over to his suitcase and took out a sock.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Andrew. “Put this on me?”

As soon as Andrew hefted the sock, he started laughing.

“Seriously?”

“Of course,” Sid grinned, holding out his wrist. “Samantha will help bolster my queer quotient!”

**********

“Good God, Sasha,” Daniel remarked when Sid and Andrew walked into the living room, “a cummerbund that isn't solid black? How did you manage that, Sidney?”

Sid just laughed; Andrew, predictably, ignored the chirp. “Aren't we all gorgeous tonight,” he commented.

Sid had to agree. Daniel, of course, looked like he'd been born in a tuxedo, and Elisabeth was even more elegant than usual in a dark blue dress with her hair up and long pearl and (he assumed) diamond earrings. Both of his parents looked great too, as did his grandma. “Where's Taylor?” he asked.

“Miss Ruthie is helping her with her hair,” his mom told him; she managed to hide most of her amusement.

Sid didn't even try to hide his. “How'd you manage that?” His mom just smiled at him, shaking her head a little. Oh. He turned to Elisabeth. “How'd you manage that?”

Elisabeth smiled slowly. “Really, Sidney: what kind of strategist would I be if I revealed my tactics to all and sundry?”

Everybody laughed. Just then, Sid heard noise from the stairs, so he headed out to the hall; he really wanted to be the first to see. He looked up . . . and blinked.

“Holy shit!”

Taylor scowled down at him. “You make one crack, Squid, and I'll kick you where it'll hurt the most.”

Sid shook his head. “I wasn't going to make a crack. At all. Tay: you look fantastic!”

“Really?” Taylor sounded . . . uncertain. Which was not something Sid was used to.

“Cross my heart and hope to spit!” Sid grinned. And was glad when she relaxed a little.

“Doesn't she look lovely?” It was taking Miss Ruthie a little while to get down the stairs; good thing she was holding on to the banister (and that Taylor was holding on to her other side).

“She certainly does,” said Andrew admiringly from behind Sid. “That dress is perfect, Taylor; it could have been made for you.”

“Knowing your mom, it probably was. But thanks, Andrew.” She helped Miss Ruthie step onto the hall floor, and then took a deep breath. And muttered, “I am so freaking far out of my comfort zone, I can't even tell you.”

“Well, you look great,” Sid told her. “Come on: let's go show Mom and Dad.”

“Do we have to?”

“Tay: don't you realize how many arguments with Mom you can win after tonight? She won't have a leg to stand on.”

Taylor stared at him for a second, before she started laughing. “That is maybe the smartest thing you've ever said, Sid. Okay.” She took another deep breath, and walked into the living room. Where she was greeted with effusive compliments: all of which sounded sincere (although Sid's dad's had more than a little disbelief in it, and Sid thought his mom was having a religious experience).

Taylor moved over towards Elisabeth. “What do you think? Did all of those hours we shopped over the phone pay off?”

“They certainly did,” Elisabeth said, giving her a hug—and then held her at arm's length to take another look. “The dress is perfect on you, Taylor. The only thing . . . excuse me a minute.” She hurried out of the room; how she could move so quickly in heels that high was yet another mystery to Sid.

When Elisabeth came back, she was holding something. Which turned out to be a necklace, which she put on Taylor. She then gave an approving nod.

“Perfect. Trina, Troy: doesn't that just set off her coloring and the dress?”

Sid's parents moved closer, and Sid didn't blame his dad for the way his eyes bugged out a little. Even Sid could tell that necklace was serious business, and he knew nothing about jewelry.

“It is perfect,” Daniel agreed, putting his arm around Elisabeth. He gave her a roguish look. “To be honest: it looks a lot better on her than it ever did on you. I told you at the time not to buy it.”

“And I should have listened to you. Ah well.” She laughed. And told the others, “Mama told me I should always let Daniel buy all of my jewelry. At first, I thought she meant pay for it, but she quickly disabused me of that notion. She used to say to me,” she deepened her voice and made it more Russian, “'Elisabet: you manage to dress yourself very well, but you pick jewelry that Catherine the Great couldn't carry off.'”

**********

The driver of the limo—and it was an actual limo this time—had just finished negotiating the Copley's driveway when Andrew's phone rang. It was, evidently, Bradley; Sid turned away to talk to Daniel, when his attention got pulled back by the excited tone of Andrew's voice when he said, “Really? When?” And then saw Andrew's face fall.

“Bradley, how could I possibly? We have guests.”

Sid leaned a little closer; he couldn't make out the words, but he could tell that Bradley was trying to convince Andrew of something. And judging from the way Andrew was biting his lip, he wanted to be convinced.

“All right. Let me ask.” He covered the phone. “Listen, everyone. I've been asked to fill in at Tanglewood tomorrow; someone's appendix burst this afternoon. I'll be honest and say that I'd like to do it, but,” and he looked right at Sid's parents, “I don't want to be rude and abandon all of you; you came all of this way for such a short time. What do people think?”

“You should do it,” Sid's father said without hesitation. And Sid's mother agreed, saying, “Believe me, Andrew, we all understand when someone gets put on IR.” Which made Andrew smile.

“Are you two opposed to it?” he asked his parents.

“Of course not, darling,” Elisabeth said firmly; “it's an emergency, after all, and it will do you good to get in front of an audience again.”

Daniel nodded. “I'm sure we can all muddle through without you, Sasha. Tell Bradley yes.”

“Okay. Thanks everybody.” He went back to the phone. “All right, Bradley; I'll do it. What do I need to know?” As he listened, Sid reached over and squeezed his knee; Andrew darted a quick smile at him. He seemed really excited, and Sid was happy.

When Andrew finally got off the phone (he'd lapsed into Italian towards the end, so Sid knew something was up), he turned to Sid.

“Tell me something, Sidney: do you have an overwhelming desire to get stinko tonight?”

“Not right now. Although that may change, depending. Why?”

“Because I have to be at Tanglewood by 10 tomorrow morning; it's roughly a three hour drive, and I need to go over my music on the way. Feel like driving me?”

“Sure,” Sid said without hesitation. “Although: why do you have to study? Haven't you memorized every opera in the world by now?”

“Please. Only half of them; I'm still young, you know. Seriously, though: I won't be singing opera. Well, I'll be doing a solo aria. But the bulk of the concert will be Beethoven's Ninth. Which I haven't sung in at least four years, so I do need to review it.”

“No wonder you were so eager to fill in,” Daniel remarked; “you're always complaining your German is getting rusty.”

“Well, it is; I hardly ever use it—in this country, at least. In fact, I don't think I've sung in German since the hockey concert.” He assumed an innocent expression. “I suppose it was serviceable enough then; I actually got a compliment on my accent afterwards. From André Burakovsky.” He paused. Deliberately. “I confess: at first, I wasn't sure what to say.”

“You're a man of few words,” Sid said, managing a straight face. And enjoying Andrew's delighted laugh.

**********

Sid was surprised by how much he enjoyed the engagement party. Well, the first part of it, anyway. Daniel's older brothers were at least outwardly polite to everybody (Daniel included), and while Sid was convinced they'd never be anything but assholes, their congratulations seemed sincere. Even Gordon managed to not say anything particularly offensive.

Andrew's grandparents were very good hosts and went out of their way to make Sid's family feel welcome, which was nice. (Sid was also surprised by how genuinely pleased they seemed to see Miss Ruthie, who, while perfectly polite and gracious, nonetheless seemed much more reserved than she had been. There had to be a history there . . . and then Sid rolled his eyes at himself: everything in this family had a history, it seemed.)

Naturally enough, Sid spent most of time with the various members of Team Daniel; both of Daniel's sisters had kissed Sid—which had been a little shocking, but he thought he hid it pretty well—as had Aunts Betsy and Connie. Taylor seemed to hit it off with them too; when she got called away to meet somebody else, Sid heard Aunt Betsy say to her wife, “And you thought there wouldn't be any eye candy here tonight!” Aunt Connie had laughed; “I wish we were thirty years younger!”

Sid immediately stored that comment in his memory, to produce for Taylor at the most embarrassing moment possible.

After the family had mingled for a while, everybody moved to the ballroom (Sid just shrugged at the looks he got from his family), where a string quartet was playing. And there was a piano, too, although no one was sitting at it. The other guests started to arrive, which is when the evening got just a little surreal. And a lot harder to take. Andrew's “a few politicians” included three U.S. senators (one current, two former) and two Massachusetts governors (both former), not to mention a handful of judges and various other public figures, including an ambassador (former) to some country Sid was pretty sure he'd never heard of. And then there were the regular friends (in his head, Sid put quotation marks around the word “regular”; he began to wonder if Daniel's father ever even talked to anyone who hadn't gone to Harvard).

Everybody was very nice . . . well, everybody was polite, and a fair number of people actually were nice, but it was stultifyingly boring. Until some people that Sid already knew showed up.

Bradley made . . . well, Sid guessed it could only be called an entrance . . . with a couple (different sex), one on either side of him, and it was immediately apparent to everybody in the room that not only were they all fucking, they had also either just finished fucking, or were planning on fucking at the first opportunity. Or both. Sid watched, fascinated, as more than a few people, open envy on their faces, tracked Bradley as he introduced his . . . okay, Sid was going to go with “companions” . . . to his hosts.

Taylor, who'd materialized next to Sid, whispered to him, “I can't decide which one of them I'd do first.”

“Uh, from what I've heard, it's kind of a package deal.”

“Really?”

Sid nodded.

“Huh.” Taylor's expression as she contemplated that was a little . . . unsettling.

“Since when are you interested in women? Or are you?”

She grinned at him. “Squid, you didn't corner the market on cool genetics in our family. I'm a female hockey player: figure it out.”

Sid burst out laughing. Which got him several indulgent smiles from various bystanders. And which also got their picture taken by the professional photographer Andrew's grandparents had neglected to mention they'd hired. Daniel had seemed to expect it, though, so Sid tried not to let it bother him.

It took Bradley a while to make it over to Sid; when he finally did, and after Sid had said hello, he remarked, “You seem to know a ton of people here.”

“I should; a lot of these people are friends of my parents. And the parents of my friends, come to that.” His voice took on an ironic tone. “Didn't you know? I'm the notorious wayward son of my family. The one who has the temerity to flaunt his perversity.”

“Well,” Sid said after a few seconds, “you do a pretty good job of it. I'm certainly impressed.”

“So am I,” Taylor said, after Bradley had stopped laughing. “I'd love to hear more about it. Much more.” Which earned her an openly assessing look from all three of them.

“We couldn't possibly kiss and tell,” Bradley's female companion said; “not until we've had at least three drinks.”

“The closest bar is right over there,” Taylor supplied helpfully.

Sid decided to leave them to it. Especially since Elisabeth was beckoning him over.

“Sidney, I'd like you to meet the woman who keeps me sane.”

It was, of course, Elisabeth's admin, Julia. Who was at least six feet tall. And who cursed. Extensively. And inventively; Sid wasn't even sure what half of those words meant.

“But enough about them,” she said, after essentially shredding 80 percent of the people present into tiny pieces and then using them for compost, “how are you holding up? In this mausoleum.”

“I'm good,” Sid chuckled.

“Having pre-wedding jitters? If half of what Simon tells me is true, then I'm surprised you and Sasha haven't eloped.”

“Daniel would hunt us down and exterminate us,” Sid told her. “Seriously. No place on earth would be safe.”

“You're probably right.” She gave him a shrewd look. “You know, maybe I shouldn't say this, but . . . I get it now. Now that I've met you in person, I mean. Simon tried to tell me, but I didn't believe him. Couldn't believe him, maybe. On paper, you're about the last person in the world I'd expect Andrew would end up with. But in reality? I see exactly why all three of them are so happy.”

“Well,” Sid said, a little awkwardly, “thanks.”

Sensing his discomfort, she changed the subject. “So: is there anybody remotely interesting here?”

“Besides you? Not really.”

She snorted into her wine glass.

“And even if there were, I probably wouldn't remember their names.” He shook his head. “Most of these people don't even have real names. Well, real first names.” All the last names had confused Sid. As had the fact that more than a few people had three last names. And introduced themselves using all of them.

“I know. Come on: let me introduce you to my husband; he's bored Sasha with baby pictures long enough.”

Sid followed her dutifully, and after a few minutes, found himself enjoying a brief moment alone with Andrew.

“How are you holding up, _mon oie_?”

“I'm fine. This is all . . . a little much.”

“I know.” His expression was so sympathetic that Sid admitted, “I feel kind of out of place.”

“For God's sake, why?”

“This is not exactly the kind of crowd I usually hang around with,” Sid said dryly. “I was hoping there'd be at least a couple of sports people.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Andrew told him; “Grandfather invited Jeremy Jacobs, but he couldn't make it.”

“That name is familiar, but I can't . . . wait. The owner of the _Bruins_?”

“You betcha.”

“That would have been . . . interesting,” Sid said finally.

“The precise word.” Andrew patted Sid's arm. “Well, it'll be over in a couple of hours. Oh look: there's Simon. I wonder . . . oh, good God.” Ignoring Sid's “What is it?” Andrew started to laugh, so Sid turned and looked. And began laughing himself. He lifted his hand in a wave.

Both Simon and Nealer waved back.

**********

After about an hour, Sid found himself and Andrew—along with the rest of their immediate families—being brought over to the front of the room, where there was a clear space near the grand piano.

“What's going on?” he muttered, while the servers circulated with trays of champagne.

“Grandfather is going to make a speech. And a toast.”

Sid hid his grimace. After that, he and Andrew were going to have to say something. “Let's get a drink, then.”

Andrew shook his head. “The toast will be in our honor, so we can't drink to it.”

“Who made up that rule?”

“I have no idea. But it _is_ a rule.”

Mr. Copley's speech was a little dry, but it wasn't too long, and his pleasure when he actually got to the toast part seemed genuine. Sid flushed a little when people lifted their glasses to them, but he put his arm around Andrew and smiled, which seemed the right thing to do.

When the clapping stopped, Andrew took a step forward. His voice, of course, carried effortlessly throughout the room.

“Thank you all so much! Both for coming this evening, and for all of your kind words. And an especially heartfelt thank you to my grandparents, for the honor they're paying the two of us by being our hosts this evening, and to Sidney's family, who came down from Nova Scotia just to be here tonight.”

There was more applause. Then Andrew went on.

“You know: I thought about trying to say something profound, but I quickly gave that up as a lost cause. And then I thought I'd tell an anecdote or two about us,” he gestured towards Sid, “but really, given how often we've had to do that lately,” he rolled his eyes and people laughed, “I abandoned that idea as well. So instead, to commemorate this evening, I decided to do what I do best. Which is to rely primarily on someone else's words and sing something. With the able assistance of my father, of course.”

Daniel smiled at his son as he moved and sat down at the piano.

“Of course, that left me with the decision of what to sing. I didn't think it would be difficult,” he smiled; “after all, I do know one or two songs about love. But ultimately I decided to go in a somewhat different direction.” Turning to Sid, he said, “Sidney, I've never sung this song to you before. But I realized as I was reviewing it, that—completely inadvertently—I actually quoted the last line of it to you in a conversation once.” He smiled. “Afterwards, you'll have to tell me if you remember when I did.”

Daniel began to play. And with his heart in his eyes, Andrew sang.

> _I hear music when I look at you. . . ._

When Andrew finished the song—which ended with the words, “the song is you”—Sid quelled his desire to start crying, walked over and wrapped his arms around his fiancé. They stood there, heads together, until the applause ended.

Sid took a step back, and, clearing his throat, told Andrew, “It was in my car. In front of my house. The night you came to Pittsburgh for Christmas skate. Four months after we met.”

More than half of the party goers oohed; Andrew's special smile was out in full force.

Sid cleared his throat again. And then addressed his audience. He'd originally planned to fall back on his media training, but after that song. . . .

“As, uh, everybody in the world knows, Andrew's a hard act to follow. But I'll do my best. At giving a speech, I mean. Because I actually can't do what Andrew did: do what I do best. It's, uh, kind of hard to carry a hockey game around with you. Even though,” and he looked around, “there's probably enough room in here.”

As he had hoped, people laughed, which gave him a few seconds to order his thoughts.

“So instead, let me talk a little about what I do best. Specifically, about the last game I played. The game where my team won the Stanley Cup.”

He took a deep breath.

“I'm not exaggerating, or making things up, when I say that the Pens owe a lot of that win to Andrew. There's a bunch of reasons for that, but I'm only going to tell you one. The play that got us the game winner? We'd been practicing that for months and couldn't get it right. Until one day, Andrew saw us try again—probably for about the thousandth time—and he made a suggestion: we should try listening to music while we practiced. He thought the . . . uh, rhythm . . . would help us synchronize our moves. He picked a song for us. An aria, actually; it was by Rossini. And he was right about it working. Because when we skated that last shift in game seven? Andrew's voice was singing in our heads. And . . . well.” He lifted his right shoulder in a kind of half-shrug and smiled a little. “We won.”

He turned back to Andrew. “So. Two things. Number one: I wish there were a way your name could be engraved on the Cup. Because it belongs there. Number two: if I'm your song, you're my heart.”

Andrew was in his arms in an instant. And the rest of the world faded into insignificance.

**********

Sid got a wide range of reactions to his speech. Daniel's brothers didn't react at all; Andrew's grandmother kissed the general vicinity of Sid's cheek, while Andrew's grandfather gave him the world's most awkward bro-hug—although Sid somehow thought that the awkwardness was more related to the gesture than to him. Sid's parents both gave him fervent hugs; his mom even had tears in her eyes. Both Daniel and Elisabeth were crying openly, but both were smiling, too, as they kissed him. Taylor called him a sap, but held on to him forever. And all of Team Daniel gave him a hug or a kiss, and said very nice things to him. In some ways, though, it was Eli's reaction that pleased Sid the most. He threw his arms around Sid, and without letting go, said, “Now I _really_ want to be you when I grow up!”

Flushing a little—from pleasure—Sid just shook his head; “Believe me, I'm no role model!” Eli rolled his eyes. And said, “Of course, you've also ruined me for life. Unless I can find someone who looks at me the way you look at Cousin Andrew.”

On impulse, Sid drew him in for another hug—and then kissed the top of his head. They smiled at each other, and Sid wondered, just for an instant, if this was what being a parent felt like.

**********

About an hour later, Sid was lurking behind a thicket of potted palms. Eli had told him that the food came in that way, and you could snag it while it was still hot. And while the trays were still full; Sid was starving. He'd passed this info on to Andrew, who, Sid was pleased to see when he peeked out between some fronds, was heading his way. As was the waiter Sid had bribed a little earlier.

He gave Andrew a kiss and said, “You can thank me now.”

“For what in particular?”

“For being a good provider.” He took the tray from the waiter, said thanks, and then held it out. “This is just for us. An assortment of the best the kitchen had to offer. And heavy on the vegetables, since you're singing tomorrow.”

That earned him another kiss. “You take such good care of me. I'm ravenous.” He took two of the spinach things off the tray and inhaled them; Sid concentrated on the little quiches.

“Mmm. These are delicious. There's a little cheese in them, so I'll have to be careful, but feta doesn't usually cause me any problems.”

“That's good,” Sid mumbled. “And so is this,” after he finished swallowing. “How much longer is this thing going to last?”

Andrew shrugged. “I don't know. Grandmother told me that there was going to be, and I quote, 'a little family supper' afterwards . . .”

Sid groaned.

“. . . so I took the opportunity of telling her that I've been called in to save the Boston Symphony tomorrow afternoon and that we probably would have to leave early.”

“That the best news I've heard all night. Is that who you're singing with? I thought you said something different before.”

“Yep. And I did: Tanglewood is where the BSO has its summer season; it's in western Massachusetts.”

“Thank God for GPS.” Sid tried one of the spinach things; it was good. “What's in those little tomatoes?”

“Hummus. Or baba ganoush.” Andrew popped another one in his mouth. “I don't think you'd like them.”

“Oh. Okay.” Then, after a second: “Why not?”

“Perhaps I misspoke. I don't think you'd like them as much as I do.” He grinned. And scarfed down the last one.

To console himself (and hide his grin), Sid ate the last of the scallops. Andrew, meanwhile, flagged down the waiter and handed him the empty tray.

“More of the same, please. And if there's anything without cheese, bring lots.” After he'd walked away, Andrew smiled happily. “I quite enjoy being one of the guests of honor.”

Sid had to laugh. He also had to pull Andrew into his arms.

“I haven't had a chance to say thanks for the song. It was . . . perfect.”

“ _Merci du compliment, mon oie_. Although you don't have to thank me.”

“Sure I do.”

“All right. But I don't think I could ever thank you enough for what you said. Nor do I think I have the words to adequately express how . . . treasured you make me feel. So, since words won't do, remind me to use other means to show you. Later.”

“Ummm. We could get a start now. We're sort of alone.”

“No, you're not.” It was, of course, Taylor.

Sid scowled at her. “Go away.”

“Nope. I need a break. How the hell does your mother wear shoes like this all the time, Andrew?”

“I have no idea. You should try to go back to the foot clinic before you leave; I'm sure Mom could get you an appointment.”

“Maybe I will. Sid, Nealer's looking for you; I think he and Simon are getting ready to leave.”

“So early? I hope they're not having a bad time.”

“Actually, Andrew, it's probably more that they'll have a much better time somewhere else. I think Nealer's a little drunk; he won't stop touching Simon.” She shook her head. “What's the story there, anyway?”

“I have no idea. Simon insists that they're just friends with benefits, but I can't help feeling it's more than that. Do you know, Sidney?”

“Uh, not exactly.” He shrugged. “We talked about it once. A while back. To be honest: I think Nealer would like to take things further. But Simon shuts him down the minute he even hints at it. Tommy might know more; I know Nealer talks to him about it.” At length. After every time he saw Simon.

Sid shook himself. And changed the subject. “So, how many people have put the moves on you tonight, Tay? I have it on good authority that you're a nice piece of eye candy.”

He enjoyed Andrew's laughter; Taylor, meanwhile, just looked smug.

“You know, if I had any idea that getting all dolled up in an outfit like this would earn me so much attention, I wouldn't have wasted probably five years of my life fighting with Mom about it.” She pretended to think. “Okay. Well, leaving aside anybody old enough to be my parents. . . .”

“A wise move,” Andrew commented.

“I thought so. And also leaving aside a couple I'm not really sure about, then . . . maybe three pretty direct ones. And if Nealer has any more to drink, I think it'll be four.”

“What?” Sid was furious.

“Stand down, Squid.” Taylor flapped her hand at him. “He didn't even come close to hinting at anything. But,” she added judiciously, “he did look.” She giggled, and she sounded so happy that Sid felt his anger start to melt away. “And believe me, I would never take him up on it. Even if Simon was included.”

“I suspect he would be,” Andrew said dryly. Donning a wide grin, he asked, “And whose offer would you accept? All things being equal?”

“The way I'm feeling tonight? Probably Bradley's friends.” She laughed outright then. “I heard the two of them telling him what they would and would not let him do if I joined them. I wouldn't be surprised if Bradley ran to the bathroom and rubbed one out.”

“Quite the visual,” Daniel remarked from behind them. Ignoring Taylor's blushes—and the laughter from the two men—he told her, “In my opinion, Taylor, you would be better off concentrating on that young lawyer and his wife; neither has been able to stop looking at you.”

“Really, Daniel?” She seemed surprised. “I thought they seemed kind of, well, repressed. Or shy, whatever. I wasn't even sure about them.”

“Take it from me,” Daniel said, irony plain in his tone, “and believe me, I speak from experience, shyness is not necessarily a good indication of what lies beneath the surface. If I'm not mistaken, both of them have quite a bit to offer a young woman like you. Far more, if I may speak frankly, than Bradley's . . . escorts.” The distaste with which he pronounced the last word spoke volumes.

“You've convinced me, Daniel,” Taylor grinned. “Too bad I have no intention of accepting any of these invitations.”

“Whyever not?”

She rolled her eyes. “Reason A: my parents are here. Reason B: my experience with anyone, male or female, who doesn't play hockey is pretty much theoretical at this point. Reason C: I feel kind of like Cinderella tonight. And with my luck, I'd be in the middle of getting hot and sweaty when I turned back into a pumpkin. And reason D: I don't really do casual sex. Which is different from post-game sex with other hockey players. Right, Sid?”

“I've heard rumors,” Sid said in his best monotone.

After he'd finished laughing, Daniel said, “Those are all excellent reasons—although if the first one is your overarching concern, I'm quite sure we could run interference for you. If you want my advice, though. . . .” He paused and waited for her nod. “You should return to the party and speak more with that couple. You'll be back in Boston next month, after all, and it's almost never a bad idea to cultivate possibilities. One needn't act on them, of course, but they do tend to entertain one during idle moments.”

Sid watched Taylor think that over, and wasn't really surprised when she nodded. “Great advice, Daniel; thanks.” He was a little surprised—although not too much—when she brushed a kiss on Daniel's cheek as she passed. Daniel followed her with his eyes; when he turned back to the other men, he had a wistful look on his face.

“She is such a wonderful girl. I would have loved to have a daughter just like her, but a daughter-in-law will have to do.”

“Will she be your daughter-in-law, Dad?” Andrew asked, his forehead creased in thought; “I've never heard the word used like that before.”

“I suppose that, technically, she, Trina, and Troy will be my in-laws. But I refuse to be hide-bound by the limitations of language. Or our language, in any case; perhaps other cultures recognize such a relationship with a specific term. In Yiddish, for example, a word exists to describe the relationship between me and Sidney's parents: Troy is my _machetun_ , and Trina is my _machetuneyste_. Collectively, they are my _machetunim_.”

“ _Gesundheit_ ,” Simon said brightly, poking his head in between two of the palm trees. “Sidney, I need a favor.”

“Sure. What?”

“Would you please have a talk with James? He's in a mood, and he won't talk about it with me. Nor will he leave.”

“Uh, okay. But Taylor said he was drunk. You want me to make him leave?”

“He's only pretending to be drunk.” The dryness of Simon's tone made it extremely evident that he'd been working with Daniel and Elisabeth for years. “If you ask me, he's in pain. And not the good kind either.”

Sid really wasn't going to go there. He repressed a sigh. “Where is he?”

“I'll send him over.” Simon disappeared.

“Shall we leave you two alone, Sidney?”

Sid considered, and then shook his head. “No. Or, maybe, not right away. The food's not here yet, after all; let's find out what the problem is first.”

Nealer and the food arrived simultaneously; as soon as the waiter left (with a completely unnecessary tip from Andrew, but Sid knew better than to say anything), he asked bluntly, “What's going on, Nealer?” He put enough of his captain's voice in to make Nealer know he was serious; since he figured Nealer actually wanted to talk, it might even work.

And it did. “Sometimes life sucks, Sid.”

“True. But not helpful. Is this about hockey? Or about Simon?”

“Both,” Nealer said glumly. Or maybe he was pouting; with him, it was kind of hard to tell.

Andrew's eyebrows asked if he should leave; Sid translated it into words for Nealer, and was a little relieved when Nealer said no.

Sid snagged one of the tomato things; it was pretty good, but not good enough to start a turf war. “Can we talk details here?”

Nealer's shoulders slumped. “I think I'm being traded.”

Since Sid had half-expected it, he was able to keep his face from changing. “Think? Or know?”

Scowling a little, Nealer said, “At this point, think. But you know how this works, Sid: nothing's for sure until it's settled. But I know I'm on the short list.”

“Any idea where?”

“Nashville.”

Mentally, Sid reviewed the roster. “That . . . could be a good fit for you,” he said honestly.

“I know.” That was definitely said glumly.

Sid didn't waste his time with bullshit; contracts like his were few and far between. “So. What are the issues?”

Nealer hesitated. And then looked at Daniel. “You won't repeat this, will you?”

“Of course not. But I'd be happy to leave.”

“No. Please.” That was pretty definite. “You know Simon better than anyone.”

“Possibly better than he knows himself.”

That got a halfheartedly raucous laugh; by Nealer's usual standards, though, it was pretty feeble.

“Okay. Leaving the big problem aside for a minute: Nashville could be good for me in terms of hockey, but I don't think it's gonna be great in terms of me and Simon. For one thing, it's a lot harder to get between Boston and there: not as many planes, I guess, and it's a longer flight. Second, it's the South. There are times, even up here, when Simon and me get looked at kind of funny, and sometimes you can tell it's the black/white thing, and not the two guys thing. It's definitely worse in Pittsburgh than here, so I figure it's got to be shitloads worse in Tennessee. And as for the two guys thing?” He shook his head. “There's no Mario in Nashville, Sid. And you know what it was like playing the Preds after you came out.”

After a moment, Sid said, “They weren't great. But they weren't as bad as the Stars. And it was only a couple of guys.”

“Yeah, well, that's a couple too many.” He scowled. “Why the fuck did this have to happen now? We just won the fucking Cup! And I _like_ not having to hide the fact that I'm bi. But I just can't see myself being able to do that there.”

He drained the dregs in his glass. And then stared into it as he said, “And then there's the big problem. Which is Simon. And his fucking boundaries. His fucking _definitions_.”

When Nealer stopped talking, Sid looked at Daniel, who had a look of understanding on his face; happily, Sid ceded being spokesman with a nod.

“You're referring, I assume, James, to Simon's insistence that—despite all evidence to the contrary—the relationship between the two of you is necessarily casual.”

Nealer snorted. “Casual. Yeah, right. How can someone so smart be so fucking blind? But if I even hint at something different, he retreats.” He glared at his glass, as if the intensity of his anger could somehow magically refill it. And then his shoulders slumped.

“The thing is: I like Simon more 'n I've ever liked any guy before. A lot more. Shit, he's the only guy I've ever been with who meant something to me. The others have all just been sex; he's, like, the only guy I've ever met that I could see myself with long-term. But . . . I honestly don't know if I could commit to him. 'Cause I _am_ bi. And as much as I feel for him, I don't know if I could spend the rest of my life being only with him. I miss being with women. Sometimes.”

Sid cleared his throat. “You haven't, uh, been hooking up a lot. Lately. Or at all, that I know of. For a while, actually.”

“No.” He was back to studying his empty glass. “I just . . . haven't been feeling it. Not enough to do it, anyway. Thinking about it, though. And . . . I've always wanted kids. Always. Simon doesn't. Or that's what he says, anyhow. And me? I think that any relationship that has kids _has_ to be the first priority.” He sighed. “For all that I like to fuck around: I don't when it's important. And I maybe . . . like . . . Simon enough to give up women. If this last year is any judge. But give up women and give up kids too?” He shook his head. “I don't think I could do that. There'd be too many regrets.”

There was silence, then, behind the potted palms: a silence so heavy it seemed to repel the noise of the party still going on not twenty feet away. A silence which, after clearing his throat, Daniel broke.

“Well, James: you've clearly been giving this a lot of thought. And I must say, I think many of your convictions—and priorities—are quite proper. Foremost among them, I suppose, is your need to be true to yourself. To your dreams as well, but to yourself most of all. And of course, your conviction that any relationship in which you play a paternal role needs primacy is laudable. Leaving Simon aside for the moment, though: have you considered what it would mean for you to marry a woman and start a family?”

“And not cheat on her, you mean? I just said. . . .”

Daniel interrupted him. “No, that isn't what I mean. Or not precisely, at any rate. I wasn't speaking of marital fidelity. But of fidelity to yourself, I suppose. Would you be able to spend the rest of your life ignoring the part of you that desires intimacy—by which I mean physical and/or emotional contact—with another man?”

The sound Nealer made, while technically a laugh, was totally devoid of humor. “Be straight, you mean? Before I met Simon, I would have said yeah, no problem. But before I met Simon, I thought I was. Mostly. When I had sex with a guy, I thought it was just physical. More rough and tumble than I could do with a chick, you know? It wasn't, like, emotional. But then again,” and this time Sid thought he could detect a tiny bit of amusement, “my relationships with chicks weren't exactly emotional either. They maybe lasted a little longer. A little. Now, though?” All traces of humor disappeared. “Since I met Simon, I've learned—or accepted, whatever—that I'm not straight. And that there's a part of me that really, really likes having a relationship that lasts more than a night or a weekend. So I don't know the answer to your question, Daniel. I guess I'd have to say: maybe if I had kids, I could be happy just with a woman.”

Daniel studied Nealer intently. Then he shook his head. “James, may I speak frankly?” When Nealer nodded, he went on, “Please forgive me when I say that your thinking is far too binary. Why does it have to be an either/or situation? At the risk of being absurdly reductive: it seems to me that what you need to do is choose a primary partner who does not find the idea of your having other amatory relationships untenable. Since you want children so much, that partner should perhaps be a woman. It need not be, of course, but for simplicity's sake, let's assume so for the moment. It should be possible—perhaps not easy, but possible—to find a woman whom you love enough to marry and start a family with, and with whom you might negotiate some way for you to fulfill your other desires.”

Nealer snorted. “No offense, Daniel, but I think the chances of that are pretty fucking small. Not any woman I'd want to have kids with, anyway.”

“I take no offense at your first statement; however, the same cannot be said of your second. Leaving the rather odious chauvinism in it aside—for the moment—I would remind you that I said it might not be easy. It is by no means impossible, however. After all, I am married to such a woman.”

Nealer's jaw dropped open so widely that were he so inclined, Sid could probably have seen his tonsils. “You . . . she . . . what the fuck? _Elisabeth_? She's actually okay with you fucking other men?”

“Within certain parameters, yes. Our situation is . . . perhaps rather dissimilar to yours. For us, it is necessary that both Elisabeth and I be present. But believe me, James,” and Daniel grinned, “that is certainly not a hardship. And not one of the men we have enjoyed together has ever complained.”

There was a choked sound. Sid looked over . . . and saw Daniel's father. Staring at his son.

Daniel paled, and Andrew tensed, ready to spring into action. Sid put a hand on his arm and shook his head slightly.

“Is . . . do I understand you correctly, Daniel?”

Setting his shoulders, Daniel said, “I imagine you do, Father. But since I have no idea how much you heard, allow me to clarify matters. I am bisexual.” His face, his tone, and his posture: all were a mix of defiance and trepidation.

After a second or two of silence, his father said, simply, “Well.” And then, a corner of his mouth twitched. “After all these years: we finally have something in common.”

********

The limo ride after the party did not lack for conversation.

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

> _Attendees of the BSO's annual Beethoven concert at Tanglewood yesterday got an unexpected treat, when an ailing Kurt-Friedrich Baldheim was replaced at the last minute by Andrew Singleton. And while for many, the highlight of the program was undoubtedly the always-anticipated performance of Beethoven's Ninth, which was given a spirited reading by Maestro Anton Lewandoski and in which all four soloists shone brilliantly, in my view, Singleton's solo aria was indisputably the high point of the afternoon. Rather than substituting one of Beethoven's concert arias, as one might have expected from a bel canto specialist, he instead sang the scheduled selection, Florestan's aria from_ Fidelio _._
> 
> _The role is generally sung by tenors with much heavier voices; Beldheim is a_ heldentenor _. But Singleton did not fall into the trap of pushing his voice—which seemed not one whit affected by recent surgery—or of employing histrionics to convey the pathos of the aria. Instead, his rendition was both vocally restrained and yet emotionally resonant: every note, every word, was sublime, in the true sense of the word. It was, in some ways, a highly idiosyncratic performance; I am sure there were people in the audience who expected—and desired—more bombast. But all things considered, in terms of both musical and dramatic impact, I don't think I have ever heard the aria sung better, and, judging from the sustained applause, most of the audience agreed with me._
> 
> _Certainly, the person sitting next to me—Sidney Crosby, Singleton's fiancé—did. During the intermission, I introduced myself and asked his opinion. He gave it some thought, and then told me, “What I find almost unbelievable is the way Andrew can sing so much pain, and still leave us with something so beautiful.” That simple statement—with which I concur wholeheartedly—reveals why Singleton stands in the highest echelon of the singers of this (or perhaps any) generation—and also provides a near perfect explanation of why people continue to listen to opera._
> 
> _\--from the_ Boston Globe

**********

“Are you sure you don't want me to drive?” Sid asked.

“Nah. You drove us here; the least I can do is drive home. I'm glad Bradley had them find us a place to spend the night.”

“Me too,” Sid said, squirming a little in his seat to get more comfortable; he had a very pleasant ache or two reminding him of their post-concert activities.

Andrew finished programming the GPS, put the car into gear, and pulled out into traffic. Which there was almost none of.

“It's really pretty out here,” Sid remarked, looking around.

“It is; you should see it in foliage season.” Andrew threw him a roguish look. “Not that you have a lot of—or any—free time then.”

“Maybe someday,” Sid smiled. His phone rang; it was Taylor's ring tone, so he answered it. She barely gave him time to say hello.

“Squid, Andrew's parents want me to keep that necklace I wore the other night. What should I do?”

Sid opened his mouth . . . and then rethought what he'd been going to say. “Do you want to?”

Taylor actually spluttered; it was pretty funny. “That's not the point.”

“Sure it is. Answer the question.”

“Well, duh. Who wouldn't?”

“Me, for one.”

“Don't be an asshole. I can't imagine how much that thing cost!”

Sid tried to make his voice patient. “Tay, haven't you been around them enough to know that doesn't matter to them? They both said it looked better on you than it did on her. So if you like it, you should take them up on it.”

“Ask Andrew.”

Sid rolled his eyes. Before he could say anything, though, Andrew called out, “Tell her to keep it!”

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes!”

“Then do it. Anything else?”

She called him an asshole again. And hung up.

Not even trying to repress his grin, Sid dropped his phone in the cup holder.

“I assume Taylor is now the proud possessor of that necklace.”

“My bet is yes. Hey, not that it matters, but do you have any idea how much that thing cost?”

“I don't. Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity. Plus, I can probably get some mileage out of it; you can never have too much chirping material.”

Laughing, Andrew said, “I'll take your word for it. And all I can tell you is that Mom bought it in Italy. She hasn't worn it in years; I'm glad they gave it to Taylor.”

They made their way east, talking sporadically, and otherwise enjoying their proximity—and their solitude—in silence. Then Sid's phone rang again. He looked at the screen, made a face, and answered.

When the call was finally over, Sid put his phone back in the cup holder, much more forcefully this time.

“What was that all about? Who was that, by the way?”

“My business manager. You know: the guy who handles my money.” Sid made a face. “Your Uncle John doesn't waste any time. Are you sure he's on Team Daniel?”

“He is. What did Uncle John do?”

“He's trying to set up a meeting: you, me, and our money people. Which he called our teams until I told him not to.” He attempted an innocent look. “I said I got easily confused.” He enjoyed the hearty laugh he got.

“Is your manager averse to the idea?”

“Unfortunately, no. He's all for it. Blah blah concentration analysis, blah blah risk assessment, blah blah blah. I suppose we have to do it, but not until I'm back from my training.”

“Fine by me. I had my own little chat with Uncle John.” Andrew's tone spoke volumes. “He was appalled by the number of things we haven't discussed.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not. I will admit, though, some of what he was saying is probably important.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, making new wills. Insurance policies—you know, beneficiary stuff. Medical proxies.”

“That one is important,” Sid agreed. “If I take another hit, I want to know you can ride in the ambulance with me. Anything else?”

“Oh, believe me, he had a long, long list. I'll be honest: he got so intense when he was talking about the tax implications of your being Canadian, I thought he might actually have an orgasm, so I didn't pay as close attention as I should have.”

When he'd finished honking, Sid said, “Leaving all that shit aside: is there anything _you_ think we should talk about?” He waited; since Andrew's brow was creased, Sid thought there might be something.

“Well,” Andrew said finally, “perhaps a few things. One is that ridiculous group interview tomorrow, but I think I'd rather wait until we're on the plane to discuss it. Unless you have a better idea than I what's going to happen?”

“I don't,” Sid said honestly.

“Well, then. Moving on: I don't know if you knew this, but yesterday's concert was broadcast on public radio.”

“I didn't, but okay. That's good, right? Because you were great.”

“Why, thank you. And it's certainly not bad. However: leaving my NHL debut aside,” he threw a grin in Sid's direction, “yesterday was my first actual performance since my surgery. Bradley told me when I accepted the engagement to be prepared for another upswing in media requests from my sphere. Are you willing to be part of some of that, should the need arise?”

“Of course. I mean, I would anyway, if you wanted me to. But,” he added in his best Andrew-voice, “in the interests of fairness, I couldn't exactly say no.”

Andrew chuckled. “All right; thank you very much. You know, Sidney: I cannot tell you how much my mood has improved in the last 24 hours. When I walked onto the stage yesterday, I felt . . . well, not at home, precisely, but . . . oh, I don't exactly know how to put it.”

“On familiar territory? Or even, home ice?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Let's stick with the former. You may even be correct in the latter case, but let's face it: I don't ever appear enough on the same stage for the comparison to be truly accurate.”

“Maybe so. But there must be some places where you feel more at home than at others.”

“I suppose there are. Pesaro, certainly. The Met. Oddly enough, the Lyric in Chicago, even though I've only performed there once. Perhaps one or two others.”

Sid assumed a pout. “Not Pittsburgh?”

That earned his knee a pat and a squeeze. “I feel very much at home in Pittsburgh. Those feelings are, however, centered around you, and not the Pittsburgh Opera. I could live very happily for a long, long time without ever having to deal with that _stronzo_ of a manager again. Did I tell you that he's already approached Bradley about my appearing there again?”

“No. And why do you sound pissed? That would be a good thing, right?”

“To answer your questions in order: I sound pissed because of the way he did it. I don't think game seven had even finished before he e-mailed Bradley. And he essentially said that since appearing there would be _so_ beneficial to me, I would, of course, be willing to halve my fee. Or perhaps forego it entirely. He also implied—at least, according to Bradley—that _you_ would, also of course, be willing to participate in fund raisers, and that _naturally,_ any productions you wished to endow would be given the _highest_ priority.” He was practically snarling when he finished speaking.

Sid managed not to laugh, but it was a close thing. “I'm surprised you didn't drive over there and put a stake through his heart.”

“Don't tempt me. Although I believe I would much prefer to use one of your sticks.” He snorted slightly. “And if I'm not mistaken, Bradley had a similar estimate of my reaction. Which is why he didn't tell me 'til we left Pittsburgh. And why he refuses to send me the e-mail so I can read it for myself.”

Sid couldn't hold back his laughter any longer, and to his credit, Andrew joined in.

“To answer your second question: yes, of course it would be a good thing. Which is why I did not reject any and all offers immediately. However, I give you my word: I will rent out Consol myself and give a free concert—with a program that would make any impressario in the world wet his pants—before I waive my fee for the Pittsburgh Opera.”

Sid dissolved into laughter again. Andrew looked at him and grinned. “You want to know something, Sidney?”

Sid managed to get out, “Sure.”

“One of the things I most love about you? Is the fact you find my unattractive qualities so charming.”

**********

They'd been on the road for a while when the GPS started shrilling out an alarm.

“Good God,” Andrew said, “what the hell is going on? The whole Pike east of here is solid red.”

“Probably an accident,” Sid said, peering at the screen. “Or maybe more than one.”

“Well, there's no way we're staying on this road. Is it offering us an alternate route?”

Sid touched the button. “It looks like . . . I guess we can get off at the next exit and head north. And eventually we'll reach . . . Route 2? It's not exactly direct, though.”

“Anything's better than sitting in traffic for hours.” Checking the mirrors, he changed lanes. “Good thing we're not leaving until early tomorrow morning.”

“I guess.” Sid gave the GPS a semi-approving look. “You know, as long as these things aren't judging me, I really kind of like them.”

**********

Two hours later, Sid was hating the car's GPS with the force of a thousand suns.

“Where the hell are we?”

“I haven't got a clue,” Andrew admitted. “I know I'm map-impaired, but I don't think I made any wrong turns.”

“Well, the fucking GPS says we're on a highway.” Sid gave the trees on either side of the road a disparaging look. “Which we're obviously not.”

“Obviously. All right,” Andrew decided, “let me pull over; I think I have an actual atlas in the back seat.”

“That's not going to do us any good if we don't know where we are,” Sid pointed out sourly.

“If you have a better idea, Sidney, then by all means share it.” Andrew's voice was testy.

“No, I don't,” Sid said after a pause. And a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Andrew; I just hate getting lost. It really . . . pushes a lot of my buttons.”

“Well, I hate getting lost too. Especially since usually it's my fault.” He turned the ignition off and leaned over to scrabble around in the back seat.

“Let's see,” he said, opening the atlas; Sid leaned over to look. “We started there,” he pointed, “and we got off the Pike there,” his finger moved, “and we went north. Or northeast, maybe. What route were we on?”

“I don't remember.” Sid peered closer. “I think we must be somewhere around here.” He stabbed the map.

“If you're right—and I'll take your word for it—then we haven't gone too far off-track. Look: there's Route 2 down there.”

“So we should go southeast.”

“I'm terribly sorry, Sidney, but I left my compass at home.” Andrew's tone was sweetness itself. “Do you have anything more helpful to suggest? Do we go straight? Back? Left? Right?”

Sid ignored the sarcasm as he opened the car door to look up at the sky.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out where east is. From the sun.”

“Really?” Now Andrew sounded impressed.

Sid got back in the car; Andrew looked at him expectantly.

“Well?”

“It's noon,” Sid said sheepishly; “it's impossible to tell.” He manfully ignored Andrew's attempts at maintaining a straight face.

“Well, it was a good idea,” Andrew told him, “and I certainly would never have thought of it. What should we do?”

“We could probably figure out where north is by looking for moss on some trees.”

Andrew's eyebrows seemed to be questioning the nature of reality itself, but he assented with a nod. “I had no idea you were so outdoorsy,” he remarked as he got out of the car. “Nor did I think anybody ever did this outside of a book. Which tree shall we inspect?”

“I'm really not. Outdoorsy, I mean.” He hesitated, and then admitted, “I saw it in a movie once. How about that oak?”

They circled it a time or two.

“There seems to be moss on all sides. Or quadrants, I suppose I should say, since it's round. How about that one?”

Andrew's choice was almost totally devoid of moss.

“Forget it!” Sid resisted the urge to kick the tree in frustration. “Let's just keep going; we'll have to reach somewhere pretty soon.”

“All right.” They got back in the car, and Andrew turned the key.

Nothing happened.

Nothing happened the second time he tried, either. Or the third time.

“I don't fucking believe this!”

“It is a comedy of errors. Well, let's call AAA.” He pulled out his phone . . . and then swore. In English.

“I have no bars. We're in Massachusetts, not on Mars. How can there not be service?”

“I don't know,” Sid said, checking, “but I don't have any either.”

“It suppose it doesn't really matter, Sidney. Even if we could call AAA, how would we tell them how to find us?”

Rolling his eyes, Sid said, “Sasha, that's easy. We'd tell them to call your dad. Come to think of it, he's probably already noticed that we're not moving. You know, from the tracking devices he's planted on us.”

“On us? More than likely, they're in us; he wouldn't want to take any chances. What should we do? Other than wait for the father ship to beam us up?”

Sid considered. “Why don't we try to find a place where there aren't so many trees? We might get bars there. Or . . . there was a big driveway a little ways back; we could maybe find out where we are. And maybe they'd let us use their phone.”

“I suppose we look respectable enough. All right, let's do that.”

They locked the car, and started walking. It wasn't all that far—in fact, their passage up the driveway seemed to take longer (it was even longer than the one at Andrew's parents' house, Sid thought). Given how fancy the entrance had been—there were wrought iron gates—Sid assumed the house would be big, but nothing prepared him for the . . . well, edifice, Sid guessed was the only word . . . that awaited them. Andrew's eyebrows indicated he was having the same reaction.

They approached the front door and then hesitated.

“Should we just ring the bell?” Sid asked.

“I suppose.” He reached to do just that, when they both heard voices. From somewhere outside.

“Ah. Let's track that to its source. After all, it's a long-standing New England tradition not to use the front door!”

**********

When they finally got back on the road a number of hours later, Andrew was uncharacteristically silent. Since he also wore his thinking crease, Sid left him to it. He occupied himself with compiling a list of the most likely things on Andrew's mind.

“Well,” Andrew said eventually, “that was certainly an adventure.”

Since that wasn't on his list, Sid decided that it was only a comment and therefore didn't count. “How do you mean?”

“The whole . . . well, lady of the manor thing. I mean, my God, Sidney: it's not as if I'm unused to living a life of privilege, but . . .” Andrew made a gesture, “it was like something out of a British novel! That mechanic dropped everything to work on our car, simply because we were her guests.”

Sid made allowances for interpretation and checked an item off his list; a British novel was a book, after all. “It was nice of him—the mechanic, I mean,” Sid agreed. “And nice of her to arrange things for us. Not that she really had to do much.”

“And then the way he didn't want to take any money for the repair! And even though she didn't say anything, she seemed miffed when I insisted!”

Another check mark. “I don't know why that surprises you. Your parents are the same way.”

“With invited guests, perhaps. Not with strangers off the street.”

“Maybe.”

Andrew fell silent again. Sid had one more item on his list, so he decided to try a leading question.

“Her son was pretty cute, wasn't he?”

After a second or two, Andrew smiled. “He was. Rather precocious, I thought.” He then put on one of his patently false innocent looks. “I must say, the way he reacted to the penguin on your shirt was adorable.”

“He has good taste,” Sid bragged; the little boy's eyes had lit up and he'd held his arms up to Sid so eagerly, that Sid hadn't even really minded when the kid ended up drooling on him.

Andrew laughed. “I think his mother was honestly surprised at how taken he was with you. She said that usually he's rather shy—at least when he first meets someone.”

“Well, I'm awesome.”

Andrew snorted. “Yes, you are. And also modest. Not.”

Sid didn't try to rein in his grin. And after another brief silence, tried an oblique approach. “I have to tell you, Andrew, I could not figure out that whole, uh, family dynamic. The only thing I got for sure was that she was his mom.”

“I couldn't either, really. Well, families exist in all sorts of ways. Look at you,” he smirked, “you have one sister and what, 23 brothers?”

Sid rolled his eyes and Andrew laughed. And then checked the mirrors, changed lanes, and passed a rather pokey Volvo. Although pokey seemed to be a relative term on this road, since it had to be going nearly 20 miles over the speed limit. Once back in the right lane, though, Andrew lapsed into silence again.

This was getting ridiculous. Sid was convinced he was right, but how to confirm?

“What are you thinking about?”

Glancing over, Andrew replied, “Not much. Wondering what to pack. Do you have any idea what the weather will be like up there?”

Shit. “I have no idea. We can look it up. Later.”

Andrew nodded. Sid tried to think of another opening . . . and then he noticed Andrew trying to hide another smirk.

“What's so funny?”

Andrew burst out laughing. “You.”

“What about me?”

“How many points did you give yourself?”

“You asshole!” Sid was outraged. “You did that deliberately!”

“I did. I couldn't resist; you're generally not so obvious. And you haven't answered my question.”

“I'm giving myself a half-point because of your interference, so two and a half.”

“Out of how many?”

“Three,” Sid admitted. Grudgingly.

“Not bad,” Andrew acknowledged. “Would you care to enlighten me as to the point you didn't win?”

“The point you deliberately sabotaged, you mean.”

“Semantics.”

Sid pretended to sulk. “No.”

“Shall I hazard a guess?”

Giving up, Sid told him, “You probably know what it is. I couldn't believe how the kid reacted to the song you sang him.” He shook his head, remembering. The little boy had refused to let Sid put him down, even though he was obviously tired. His mom had apologized, saying that he wouldn't fall asleep without his lullaby. So Andrew had offered to sing him one, and. . . .

Sid asked the least important question first. “Do little kids usually like . . . whatever kind of singing that was?” It had lots of ornaments, but it wasn't the sort of thing Andrew sang most often.

“Baroque opera? No, not usually. Well: perhaps I should rephrase. Not to my knowledge, anyway. But I don't know all that many small children. Certainly, none of my little cousins has ever expressed a preference for it. I will admit to quite a bit of surprise when his mother told me that baroque music was his favorite; I was going to sing one of the lullabies I learned for the hockey concert.”

“I figured you would.” Why that made him feel so satisfied, Sid had no idea. Or no idea he would admit to, anyway. He moved on to the next question.

“What she said about. . . what the fuck was it? Prenatal influences?”

“That's what she called it.”

“Is that actually a thing?”

Andrew shrugged. “It makes a certain amount of sense, but I have no idea, to be honest, if there's any, oh, scientific basis for it. Dad might know; remind me to ask him.” He checked the mirrors again. “Whether it's true or not, she obviously believes it. And certainly, her son liked what I sang.”

“He for sure did,” Sid agreed. He adopted a mock-jealous tone. “I'm the only person who's allowed to stare at you like that while you're singing!”

A squeeze on the knee. “I'm afraid, _mon oie_ , that this time you'll have to share.”

“I guess maybe I can do that. Since the kid's less than two. Any older, though, and we'd have to have words!”

They both laughed. Then Sid moved on.

“So, when she started telling you about his brother—or, half-brother, I guess—the one who sang opera to her all the time she was pregnant—you got one of your looks. At first, I thought you were just being polite, but then I realized it was maybe more than that. Well: I realized that after you offered to listen to him sing and maybe talk to him about what it's like being an opera singer. What made you do that?”

Andrew hesitated—and then shrugged. “I'm not exactly sure why. Just because his family thinks he's good doesn't mean he actually is, but . . . well, I asked her what he used to sing. And while some of it's, oh, in the standard repertoire, some of it decidedly isn't. Donizetti and Rossini? Definitely. Handel? Of course. Gluck and Monteverdi I could almost understand—almost—but someone just playing around at singing opera is not going to waste any time with composers like Cavalli and Rameau. And since that does speak to his being serious: I made my offer.”

Sid nodded. “And you meant it.” It wasn't supposed to be a question, but there was maybe a hint of it in his voice, because Andrew nodded.

“I did. I wouldn't have offered, otherwise—no matter how helpful she'd been to us.” Andrew darted an appraising glance his way. “You don't seem surprised.”

“I'm not. I think I'd feel the same way. In fact, I know I would; I kind of already do. Obviously, Sasha, hockey operates differently than opera does. Hockey players have stats. Well, maybe opera singers do too, but if so, I don't know about them.”

Laughing, Andrew said, “We don't. Well, not in the same way. But go on.”

“What we do is always being assessed. We're always being measured. And it's all written down. I have a real good record; sometimes I think I live up to it better than others. But there are other people who do some stuff better than I do. Kane, for one. You know, a couple of years ago, I did some training in the offseason with somebody Kane had worked with. And I got a lot of flack about it. So I told one reporter: why wouldn't I want to get better? He didn't have an answer—well, not one that made any sense. Jon actually called me when he read the story, and he told me he felt the same way; maybe all the really good players do. And maybe that's part of what makes us good: we're always trying to be better. I know that's why I like to work with younger kids during the offseason—and with the rookies at training camp, too, although that's a little different. If someone wants to get better—and if he has the potential to actually get better—then I want to help.”

“Which is one of the reasons you've taken such an interest in Eli, isn't it?”

“One of the reasons,” Sid agreed. “There are others. Well, at least one.”

“Do you feel like sharing it?”

“I don't mind, but I'm not sure I can say it in any way that makes sense.” Sid tried to marshal his thoughts. “Eli's your cousin; I can see parts of you in him. But . . . I can also see parts of me in him. We share . . . an affinity, that's it. For hockey. But also—and don't laugh—I feel comfortable with him; I did almost from the moment I first met him. That happened with Tommy, too, although it took longer. Sometimes, people just . . . click. You know?”

“I've heard rumors,” Andrew said, tongue-in-cheek.

For form's sake, Sid scowled at him. Well, a little. “Anyway: what are you going to do? About the 'possibly a prodigy' brother?”

“Sidney: I made the offer. It's up to him to accept it—or not. Although . . . all right, there is one other thing I will do, and that is to repeat the invitation in the thank you note I'll be sending her. And I need to remember to include my personal card; I didn't have any on me, so I had to use one of my business cards.”

Sid gave him an incredulous look. “Wait, what? Here I was feeling blown away that you carry cards at all, and you actually have two kinds? Why do you have a business card anyway? For that matter, why does _anybody_ have personal cards?”

“To answer the second question first: it's an old tradition, and one, it probably won't surprise you, that my grandfather encourages. He has them made for all of us when, in his view, we're old enough—or when we go to college, whichever comes first.” He laughed a little. “If he paid for Eli's tuxedo, then I'd wager Eli has cards already; he gave me mine before I left for Paris. And as for your other question: you know I do some testing work for SCE, so I have to have cards.”

“I guess I didn't know it was all that official. Do you have a title? Or an office?”

“Yes and no; well, to be precise, I share an office. Since I'm hardly ever there.”

“What's your title?”

Andrew got an embarrassed look on his face. “It used to be something generic, but Dad made me change it when I came up with the idea for the player. Now it's rather ridiculous.”

Sid waited.

“You're going to make me say it out loud, aren't you?”

“Would you rather I go through your wallet and look?”

“Frankly, yes: as long as you do it when I'm not there, so I don't have to see your face. All right, fine: I'm an Innovation Architect.”

**********

That night, Sid found himself having trouble falling asleep. He tried not to squirm around too much, but he wasn't all that surprised when Andrew's voice came out of the darkness.

“Is something bothering you, _mon oie_?”

Biting back an instinctive impulse to deny it, Sid thought about what to say. “I . . . well, I don't know if bothering is the right word. I've just been . . . thinking.”

“About what? Are you worried about something?”

“Not exactly.” Sid squirmed again, and then flopped over onto his back. And sighed. “It's not that I don't want to tell you, Sasha, but I don't know if this is the right time. And also: I don't know if I'll be able to say it in a way that makes any sense.”

“Well, there's no time like the present, as _Dedushka_ Alex used to say.” Andrew turned onto his side and put his hand against Sid's cheek. “Why not give it a shot, Sidney?”

“I'll try. But remember: this is all . . . preliminary.”

“Noted.”

So, after he took a couple of deep breaths, Sid said, “I've been thinking about the future. Our future.”

Andrew made an encouraging sound.

“And I know that's a big topic. Because,” and he found himself grinning a little, “it's going to last a while.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Me too. Anyway,” he paused, and then said, a little abruptly, “and okay, I just have to say this: I don't know how much of this I'm going to be able to say out loud. It's kind of . . . pushing my OCD buttons. A little. Or maybe more than a little. But let me try. I was wondering if it was too soon to start planning for some things. And I don't know if it is or it isn't, or if I'm afraid that I might jinx things, but I kind of think that before we can even start planning, we have to talk about some stuff.”

After a few moments, Andrew said, “I would welcome increased specificity, Sidney.” His tone was gently teasing, but also serious.

“I know.” He took a very deep breath. “Do you want to have kids?”

“Yes.” Without hesitation.

Sid sighed in relief. “Good. So do I. A lot.”

“You want to have kids a lot, or you want to have a lot of kids?”

Sid ignored the chirp. “Both. Well, more than one, at least. Right now, I'm thinking two.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Well, I really liked having a little sister. It was . . . good for me, I think.”

“As I may have mentioned, I always wanted a little sister or brother. But since I don't have one, I'll have to take your word for it. Any other reason?”

“Maybe. It kind of depends . . . on how we go about having kids. I mean, if we adopt, that's one thing. But if we use a surrogate . . . well, I don't know a whole lot about it. But if we go that route, two kids would maybe mean that each of us . . . uh, could be the father. Biologically, I mean. And I have to tell you, Andrew, that this is . . . kind of new thinking for me. 'Cause—not that I ever gave it much thought before I met you—but I used to think that I didn't want kids of my own. And I'm still not sure if I do. But maybe I'm changing my mind.” Sid decided not to admit that their encounter earlier that day had kind of tipped the balance. For sure.

“I see.” It was dark, but Sid would have bet that Andrew had his thinking face on. Eventually, Andrew admitted, “I'm not exactly sure how I feel about adoption versus surrogacy; I'll need to try and sort out my thoughts.”

“Okay. And as long as you're sorting, think about this: when would you like to start having kids? And I'll be honest with you, Andrew: this is where it gets really hard for me.”

“Ah.” Silence. Then, in a changed tone: “Ah. I'm beginning to understand.”

“Maybe you can explain it to me, then,” Sid said, only half-facetiously.

Andrew reached up and flicked Sid's nose. “I said _beginning_ to, Sidney.” Another silence, followed by a sigh.

“This is very complicated, isn't it?”

“For sure. I mean, you're you and I'm me. So, it's complicated right from the get-go. But more than that: there's the 'how,' which we've already talked about a little. This is the 'when,' which is maybe even more . . . I don't know. . . .”

“Fraught?” Andrew suggested.

“That's as good a word as any, I guess. Do we start right away? Do we time it for when I retire? Do we wait until after that? Considering the fact that we don't know when that will be.”

“Nor do we know what you'll do after that. Or even where. To supply an additional adverb. Do you have plans? Is there something you want to do for your second career?”

It was Sid's turn to be silent. “I don't know,” he admitted finally. “I guess I always kind of thought that I'd do what Mario did. Move up into management. I don't think I'd want to own a team, exactly. I have thought—a lot—about coaching, but . . . here in the dark, I can admit to you, Andrew, I don't think I'd be very good at it. At the NHL level, I mean.”

“An interesting distinction,” Andrew said. “And I'm not being sarcastic. Why do you think so? Or why don't you think so, I suppose?”

“I think it's because playing hockey is the only thing I've ever done. And it would maybe be . . . hard . . . to coach people to do it, when I wouldn't be able to do it anymore. And most likely it would be . . . a difficult adjustment. Not just for me, either: for whatever team I ended up with. Plus,” and he grinned a little, “I'd probably also always be convinced I could do it better. Well, do some things better. To return to our conversation in the car.”

“Indeed. How about the AHL?”

Sid shook his head. “No. That doesn't feel right to me. Besides: more years of insane traveling? No. And for sure, not at that level: I have enough trouble with the hotels I stay in now.”

Laughing, Andrew squeezed him. “You make an excellent point, _mon oie_. Tell me something: do you feel as if you need to make this decision in advance? You could wait and see; after all, it's not as if you'll need the money. Why not take some time off?”

“I could,” Sid said eventually. “Which brings us back to the kids conversation. But: I'd have to do something. I know myself, Andrew, and if I don't have some structure in my life, chances are I'll be back in the shower full-time.”

“Well, we certainly don't want that; sex in the shower is quite enjoyable, but it's probably not something we'd want to chance as we get older. Over the age of sixty, say.”

“I really like the way you think,” Sid said, giving Andrew a squeeze of his own. “How about you?”

“What about me?”

Sid opened his mouth, and then closed it. “You know,” he said, after he'd given it some thought, “I don't even know how things work in opera. How long will you keep singing?”

“As long as I'm able to. Or, to be more precise, as long as I'm capable of singing the way I do now. Or thereabouts. Voices change . . . well, you now know that. But they change in other ways too, and of course, the more you use them, the more likely it is that they'll deteriorate sooner rather than later. If I'm being honest, I don't think I'll ever have to worry about my technique, but if my upper register gets pinched, or if my voice develops more of a beat? Which means start to wobble?” Sid felt him shake his head. “That would be it for me. I am vain enough to want to go out on my own terms. However, I honestly don't know when that would be; it's not unheard of for men to have successful careers well into their fifties, or even beyond. Plácido Domingo is still singing and he's in his seventies. Of course, he's now singing baritone roles, which is . . . not a choice I think I would ever make.

“Having said all of that: I have a lot of commitments for the next couple of years, but after that? It may be time to retrench a bit. After all,” and his voice got a smile in it, “now that I have you in my life, I don't need to spend half my time thousands of miles away. Plus, if we have children? I don't want to be an absentee parent. To a certain extent, of course, that's unavoidable: even if I moderate my schedule, I'll still be on the road a lot. But I don't want to miss too much.” He huffed out a laugh. “I used to love it when Mom and Dad would take me on one of their business trips; perhaps our children would enjoy that too. You would, of course, be more than welcome to tag along.”

“Well, thanks. So: have we figured anything out?”

“Not precisely. But we'll get there.”

“I guess.” He hesitated, but then plunged ahead. “If I'm being honest, Sasha, I think I'd like to have kids sooner than later. You never know what's going to happen. And while it's maybe not great if we do it when we're both always traveling, well . . . we can always get some help.”

“I rather think we'd have to, no matter what. All right, Sidney: I promise I will try and sort out my feelings on adoption versus surrogacy. That topic will move to the top of the list: after tomorrow, of course.”

“Don't worry so much about tomorrow.”

“That's easy for you to say. I don't know why I'm so anxious, but I am.” He sighed. “Time will tell, I suppose.”

“I guess.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which many questions are asked--and some others are answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now begin the last major event of Act Two. Thanks very much for reading!

They were the first to arrive for the interview, which didn't surprise Sid; it was one of the many things he had in common with Andrew. Nor was he surprised when Tommy showed up next. He was maybe a little surprised that Tommy was alone, but decided not to say anything. Yet.

Tommy hugged both of them, and then said, with a smirk, “Before you ask, Sid: Bran got orders from Toews to show up for a strategy session. So it looks like it's gonna be Pens versus Hawks.”

Sid rolled his eyes as Andrew laughed. “Should we have our own planning session, Captain Crosby?”

“I thought we did. On the plane.”

“This I got to hear. What's the play, Ace?”

“Sidney's going to be relaxed and affable. And I'm going to look engaged. In more than one sense of the word.”

“How many senses?”

“At least two.”

“Okay. My first prediction: Ace two, Sid zip.”

Sid shoved his elbow into Tommy's side. “Don't laugh too much; you've got a much harder job.”

“Yeah? What?”

“Acting mature enough to be in a relationship. Especially one that crosses so many lines.”

Andrew reached over and flicked the tip of Sid's ear. “How quickly we forget.”

“Ow. Forget what?” Sid asked, rubbing.

“The sage words of your former nemesis, Claude Giroux: 'sometimes people forget we're all NHL.' I'm excluding myself, of course.”

Sid growled at him. And then decided to rise about it all. Or ignore it, whatever. “Well, we're here. Let's go in. The sooner this starts, the sooner it'll be over.

“From your lips to the ears of the Almighty.”

**********

Once inside, they got shown to a comfortable room, which had a ton of refreshments. The people organizing the filming, who were pretty friendly, told them to relax until the others got there. Which took a while, of course.

“It's about time,” Sid groused when they finally walked in.

“Blame Jonny,” Kane said, walking over to the coffee. Which made Jon scowl. And Saad smirk.

They made small talk—very small in some cases, Sid thought uncharitably—until they were interrupted by somebody official. Official enough to give them an idea of what was going to happen before they were hustled off to makeup. Sid managed to hold Andrew back for a minute.

“What do you think?”

Andrew shrugged. “In theory? It sounds kind of fun. I like the fact that it's going to be rather informal. Of course, we'll have to reserve judgment until we hear what the questions are.” He made their “wry face” gesture. “As for the second part? Who knows? She was rather mysterious.”

Sid nodded; Andrew's take mirrored his own.

**********

The first part of the interview was . . . not terrible, Sid decided; maybe that was because despite the massive audience, only the interviewer and the six of them would be talking. That she knew her hockey was immediately apparent in how she made brief introductions of the five NHL players, but either she'd done her homework or she knew a fair amount about opera, too, because her introduction of Andrew was equally . . . informed. Which, Sid could tell, Andrew recognized—and appreciated. Although he'd appeared to be completely at ease from the moment they walked on the stage, Sid could tell that he'd lost a little of his tension by the time the woman moved on to her next topic.

Which was not something Sid had expected. Well, not exactly.

“We're going to begin . . . well, at the beginning,” she announced, “by watching footage of the minute or so that brought all of us here today.”

The second the clip began and Sid saw his own face—with his hair wet and unbrushed—he knew what was coming. He squirmed internally; he'd tried really hard not to watch this since he'd actually, well, lived it, but there was no escape right now. And a part of him—the part of him that analyzed plays—was actually kind of impressed. He didn't come off as nervous. Or, amazingly, awkward. Or even, well, doomed. He just looked . . . like himself. Saying something in an interview. Like he didn't know that his words were going to change his entire life.

So he watched himself come out . . . and when he saw himself say, “For us,” he darted a glance over at Andrew. Who met his eyes. And winked.

“So,” the woman said, “this is how is all began. How hockey became the first professional sport to have a player come out as gay while he was still playing. Now, Sid, I'm sure you've been asked about a million questions about this moment . . .” she paused inquiringly, so Sid said, in as upbeat a tone as he could manage, “At least!”

Everybody laughed, with lesser or greater senses of appreciation, depending, and the moderator said, chuckling, “I know; I had to watch most of the them!” Which got another laugh. She went on, “And of course, I have to as well. But I don't think you've been asked this question before.”

In his best monotone, Sid said, “Now I'm scared.”

She laughed, as did Andrew and Tommy; the three Hawks, on the other hand, looked completely startled. What, they didn't think he could be funny? Sid ignored them.

“My question is this. When you were talking, you identified your fiancé as 'Sasha.' Now, Sasha can be either a man's name or a woman's. And 'fiancé' with one 'e' sounds the same as 'fiancée' with two. It wasn't until the very end, when you said, 'For me and for him,' that you made it clear—unequivocally so—that you were talking about another man. So my question is this: was that deliberate? Did you consider playing the pronoun game? Did you actually intend to come out, or did you just slip up with that 'him?'”

She waited. And Sid said, grinning, “You said 'a question.' That was three. Do I get to choose?'”

Again with the disbelieving looks from the Hawks. Well, fuck them.

The moderator laughed again. “How about this?” She turned to Andrew. “The first time you saw this: what did you think?”

And Andrew didn't hesitate.

“I thought many things, actually. But to confine my response to your questions,” he smiled, “I never for a moment thought that Sidney was going to try and hide behind misleading pronouns.”

“May I ask why?”

“Of course. To put it one way, Sidney is a very . . . well, definite person. It was quite apparent to me that he was committed to doing this; he would never have used my name . . . well, my family's name for me . . . otherwise. To put it another way,” Andrew turned slightly and grinned at Sid, “he's also perfectly aware of his own limitations; he knows he'd never be able to juggle pronouns successfully for more than half a minute. If that.”

When the laughter had subsided, Sid said, smiling widely, “You see how well he knows me?”

Tommy interjected, “And he's going to marry you anyway.”

**********

The conversation got more serious then: all the usual topics. Homophobia—both within and without the NHL (and Sid was secretly pleased that Operation Make a Fuss had so obviously been working, since she had specific questions about prejudice and willful disregard of the rules—and also extremely glad, and more than a little surprised, when the three Hawks had a lot to say on this topic). The fear of coming out. The fear of reprisal. The dangers of denial. And every so often, she'd throw in a lighter question or two.

She asked Tommy, “What was the first thought you had when Brandon kissed you after game seven?”

Tommy laughed. “Honestly? It was, 'I haven't brushed my teeth in like forever!'”

“Jon, when did you start thinking about Patrick as more than just a teammate?”

Managing to look only slightly constipated, Jon admitted, “Long before we actually _were_ teammates.”

“I made him work for it,” Kane said smugly.

Sometimes, though—and it was probably deliberate—even the lighter questions had a more serious edge to them. Or the follow-up questions did, anyway. She went right from that interchange to a discussion of team dynamics, focusing mainly on Jon and Kane.

When that part was over with, and Sid had been honestly impressed at the quality of the media training the two of them had probably had on that exact topic, she turned to Saad. “Now, you and Tommy are on different teams,” she said, “and most recently, rival teams. How do you see that affecting the dynamic between the two of you?”

To give him credit, Saad actually stopped to think. “I guess . . . well, I . . . you know, I think that maybe I don't know. I mean, yeah, obviously, I wish the Hawks had won. But . . . there's a big part of me that's real proud of Tommy.” He glanced over at Tommy and his mouth quirked. “That would be the part of me that wasn't thinking clearly and kind of outed him.” Tommy leaned over and mock-punched him. Saad grinned then. “Plus, you know, now he feels sorry for me!”

“Trust me, Bran,” Tommy laughed, “it won't last!” He addressed the moderator then.

“You know, when we first got together, I asked myself a similar question: how was I gonna react when our teams played each other? And it turned out to totally not be an issue. For either of us, right, Bran?”

Saad nodded. “Absolutely.”

“You know, though,” Tommy went on, “it's not exactly a rivalry issue, but . . . being on different teams—in different conferences—it's kinda challenging.”

“It is,” Bran agreed. “And Tommy and I, we talked about it. Before we ever really got serious about each other. You know, about our schedules. I mean, we got to spend time together at the beginning and the end of the offseason last year. But after that?”

Tommy joined in, “We only saw each other maybe five times during the season. We talked forever on the phone, and we Skyped a whole bunch. We really got to know each other.”

“And trust me,” Bran interjected, “it was a lot of fun!”

Grinning, Tommy nodded his head. “We never ran out of things to talk about. But now . . . well, now we have the chance to get to know each other even better—and in person this time! Which is great!”

He smiled happily, and Sid decided—grudgingly—that as long as Tommy looked like that, he could tolerate Saad. For the most part.

The moderator asked the obvious follow-up question about next season (which Tommy deflected so smoothly Sid was sure he'd been taking lessons from Andrew), and then she moved on. No matter where the conversation led, though, sooner or later it came back to coming out. Which, Sid thought with a corner of his brain, made sense, since _You Can Play_ was the main force behind this whole thing. So he wasn't exactly surprised when she said, “Let's wrap up the first half. I'd like each of you to share a story about your coming out. From any perspective. It can be how you came out to a friend, a family member, a team member, each other: anything. And feel free to interpret 'coming out' in any way you want to.” She looked around. “Who wants to go first?”

Sid had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing when Jon said, “I will;” he chanced a look and saw Andrew was doing the same thing. And was also looking at him; Sid tore his eyes away before he embarrassed himself.

Of course, having appropriated the opening spot, Jon took his time starting.

“It's not,” he finally said, “well, what I want to say isn't a traditional coming out story.” He shrugged. “There's not that much to say about that, really. My family's always known, and . . . so has everyone else important in my life. Instead,” and he paused, and Sid had enough time to think that uncertainty looked really, really funny on Jon's face, “I want to talk about something that is, or was, a much bigger deal.” Another pause, and this time his eyes drifted over to Kane. Then, visibly, Jon committed himself.

“Patrick and I have had a casual thing going for a while. And I thought that was all that I . . . wanted. Until, not that long ago, I realized that no, I wanted something more.”

Kane interrupted him. “Tell them what you wanted, Jonny.”

Jon gave him a low-wattage snotty look—and then it disappeared. “I told him,” he jerked his thumb at Kane, “that I wanted it all. I didn't want casual. I didn't want us to only get together when we had nothing better to do. I told him I'd been deluding myself into thinking that I didn't want a commitment, because that's exactly what I _did_ want. I wanted it all, and I wanted it with him.” His mouth firmed. “I want to play hockey with Patrick for as long as I can, and I want to come home to our house and live with him for the rest of my life. And I told him that too.” He barked out a laugh. “It was the fu— uh, scariest thing I'd ever done.”

“When was this, Jon?” the moderator asked.

Jon's face got . . . shifty, Sid guessed was the word. He opened his mouth . . . and then his expression changed. Into something like acceptance.

“I was going to tell him right after the finals,” he admitted, “but then things blew up with Saader,” cue the glare (and cue the sound effects: a sigh from Saad, a snort from Tommy, and a snicker—quickly suppressed—from Andrew), “so I waited until we got back to Chicago.”

“Jonny,” Kane said, in a remarkably patient tone, “you waited until we'd been back for almost a week.”

“There was,” Jon said, in what he probably thought was an equally patient tone, but which in anyone else would probably be cause for divorce, “a lot going on.” The encore glare at Saad was even more pronounced. And dyspeptic.

“If you don't mind my asking, Jon: when did you come to this realization? And do you have any idea why?”

There was a long pause; Sid wouldn't have been at all surprised if Jon said, “Yes, I do mind.” Instead, though, he sighed. “I started figuring it out towards the end of the regular season.” His face started to turn a little red. “After Sid came out. I mean, obviously I couldn't help thinking about myself. And my own, uh, situation. And then,” he hesitated, and Sid could pinpoint the exact moment when he gave a mental shrug, “Pat and I had dinner with Sid and Andrew the night before the finals started. And . . . I'd never seen them together in private before. It was . . . nice. And Andrew took me aside and told me how he wanted to sing the anthem if the finals went to game seven, and would that be all right with me. Of course I said okay, but Andrew couldn't really even talk much at that point. So I asked him if he really thought he could do it. Or maybe I said should do it, I don't really remember.” He paused for a second. “And he just kind of shrugged. And he said, 'I don't know. Maybe I'm not ready. I know the whole prospect frightens me a little. But it's important.' And then he changed the subject.

“And when we got back to the hotel, I kept thinking about it. 'Cause I could tell that what he meant was that it was important to Sid, that _he_ would like it. So, Andrew was gonna do whatever he could, no matter what, or how much it cost him. And I wondered if I'd ever meet someone who would do something like that for me. And,” he took a deep breath, “then I realized that I already had. Pat. Patrick would do something like that for me. Has done things like that for me. He's there for me, on the ice and off. Sometimes even before I know that I need him. Or know what I need. So, why was I deluding myself, thinking that keeping things casual was the best thing to do? And . . .” his face got even more red, “why was I deluding myself that what I felt for Pat wasn't, uh, stronger, and . . . and better, than anything I'd ever felt about anyone else? Ever. Why was I denying the fact . . . that it was love? And had been, probably for years.”

He was absolutely scarlet now. “So I decided that I had to tell Pat how I really felt. 'Cause whatever happened, he deserved to know the truth.”

“That's a beautiful story, Jon,” the moderator said. She turned to Kane. “And what did you say when he told you? How did you feel?”

Kane said easily, “The first thing I said was that of course he loved me. I'm awesome!” Everybody but Jon laughed, and even he managed a smile. “And then,” Kane's voice changed, “I told him that I loved him too, and had for years, but that I was always afraid to tell him. So afraid that whenever I got close to saying something, I'd go out and do something stupid and sabotage myself, so I _couldn't_ tell him.”

Kane got even more serious then. “But I also told him that he had to give me time to decide how public I wanted to be. 'Cause of all the people here, I know best—even more than you, Sid—what it's like to have hate shouted at you by thousands and thousands of people. And it's bad enough to hear that stuff when it's because of something I did—or didn't do.” He bit his lip. “I honestly didn't know if I could take adding this,” he waved his hand between himself and Jon, “us, I mean, into the mix.”

He grinned a little crookedly. “And Jonny told me to take as long as I needed. But I wouldn't be surprised if he set up a reminder on his phone to ask for a status update.” Jon glared at Kane, which Sid took to mean Kane was right.

“But then, we went to the awards. And this guy,” he jerked his thumb at Andrew, “decides to give the world's politest 'Screw you' to some homophobic NHL jerkwad by singing his heart out to the guy _he_ loves. And I sat there listening to him sing how much he loved Sid,” his voice caught a little, and Sid wouldn't have been surprised if he had tears in his eyes, “and his voice . . . that song . . . well, it sounded just like how I feel about Jonny. And something inside me just, like, _changed_ , and I . . . okay, it was like _knowing_ just before you make a shot that it's all gonna work the way you want it to; you can _see_ yourself doing it, and so you just _do_ it. So,” he finished, a little sheepishly, “I did.”

After a moment, the moderator said slowly, “So what you each are saying is that, Sid's coming out and going public about his relationship with Andrew is, to a certain extent, why each of you did too.”

Jon and Kane exchanged glances; then Jon made a gesture, deferring to Kane.

“You could frame it that way, I guess,” he said, “but for me, it was more Andrew. I mean, yeah, part of it was definitely Sid. Everybody's always ragging on him for being the perfect hockey robot. Which is a bunch of crap, of course, because obviously that's Jonny.” He smirked before going on, “And at the awards—when Andrew sang to him—you could, I don't know, just _see_ everything in Sid's face. He didn't hold anything back. He didn't give a . . . he didn't care that he was in front of a couple of hundred guys he'd be facing on the ice in a couple of months. Everything that Andrew sang at him, he . . . reflected, that's it, reflected back at him. But honestly?” He smirked again. “Sid got the assist but it was Andrew's goal.”

Everybody laughed. Turning to Andrew, she asked him, “So, Andrew: how does it feel to hear that?”

Andrew hesitated for a moment. “Honestly? I'm immensely flattered—as well as rather uncomfortable. I don't think I did anything special; I was just . . . being myself. As I am with Sidney. At the awards . . . well, I'll admit that I was trying to make a point. I love Sidney. He loves me. Our love is real, and every bit as valid as anybody—no, _everybody_ else's. But to be frank: I can't quite accept the implication that both Jonathan and Patrick are putting forth, that I am in some way inspiring. If my performance at the awards had emotional resonance, it was because I was singing to Sidney. In point of fact, it's Sidney who inspired me.”

“Sid? Any thoughts?”

“As few as possible.” Again, Pens camp laughter, Hawks disbelief. What was with them today? “Seriously, though: Andrew, you're being too modest. You know, I've probably been asked five thousand times why I came out. And I've always given the same answer: that I don't really know why, I just knew I had to. But maybe there's something I can add to that. You know,” he addressed everybody but Andrew for a minute, “Andrew and I don't fight a lot. But the very first time we had words? I told him that I was too much of a coward to come out. And then I said that I wished I could come out for him, but I was too afraid. And he went through the roof. And told me, in no uncertain terms—and I think everybody here except maybe for you,” he nodded to the moderator, “knows exactly what that means, that he never wanted to hear me say that again. If I ever came out, he said, it had to be for me. And only when I was ready.”

He turned back to Andrew. “I took you at your word, Andrew. Exactly. I didn't come out for you; I came out for me. And for us, of course. I knew what would happen when I said what I did. I knew what I was letting myself in for. But I didn't care. We had just won a game that every single guy on the Pens was playing for you. For me. For the two of us. To bring us luck. I told your dad right afterwards it was the most important game of my life. And it was. Because I _finally_ had something else in my life besides hockey. Something that was worth playing for. And that was you. And the hopes I had—and believe me, still have—for a very long life with you. And I could not— _would_ not live a life where I had to hide who I was, and who you were to me, any more.”

He smiled. “So, you can say I inspire you. Just let me—let us—say the same thing about you. Okay?”

Andrew gave him a look that he had no problem interpreting. And then he opened his mouth. And said something. In Italian.

Laughing, Sid asked, “And what does that mean?”

“Roughly translated? You are _so_ getting lucky tonight.”

And even as he and Andrew drank in each other's smiles, a part of Sid's brain remarked, “How come they find _him_ so funny?”

**********

During the break, Sid managed to get Tommy alone for a couple of minutes. Through the simple expedient of grabbing his arm and pulling him.

“I want to talk to you for a second.”

“Yeah? What's up?”

Sid studied him. Why, he didn't really know. He looked . . . the same. Like Tommy. Mentally, he shrugged.

“Have you spoken with Nealer lately?”

Tommy shook his head.

“He thinks he's being traded. To the Preds.” He watched as Tommy did the same thing he had: review the roster in his head.

“Could be worse,” Tommy said after a few moments.

“That's what I thought. Have you . . . is there any talk about trading you?”

“Not that I've heard. And Jesus, Sid: don't jinx me, okay? If you have to talk about this, how 'bout you say 'the T word' instead.”

Sid could feel a part of him relaxing.

“Well, good. Next topic: you do know that I don't want you to move out, right?”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “I kinda got that impression last season. And just to be clear: I don't want to move out either. I _like_ living with you, Sid. But let's be real here: we need to talk to Ace about this too; he might not want me hanging around.”

Sid waved this aside. “Andrew's fine with it. You can check with him, if it'll make you feel better, but he'll tell you the same thing.”

It was Sid's turn to get studied. “Okay. Well, assuming he don't change his mind, it's all set. So. Sid: what's this about? I ain't lived with you for almost two years without learning how your brain works.”

Scowling, Sid told him, “Leave my brain out of this.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, Sid: talk to me.”

Sid huffed. And bowed to the inevitable. “Fine. You really like . . . him?”

“Yeah, I do.” Tommy looked around, and then stepped a little closer. And lowered his voice. “I'll be honest with you, Sid. It's kinda . . . weird. Being here. Well, yeah, of course that's weird. But what I mean is: being here with Bran.”

“Why is it weird?”

“Well, it's kind of like what we said before. In some ways, we're really just starting out. And yet, here we are with Kane and Toews, who've been together, one way or another, I guess, since they were fourteen, and with you and Ace, who were probably talking to each other telepathically in the womb. I mean, me and Bran: we're together. But we're not together together, the way the four of you are. Not yet, anyway. And while it's been pretty fucking wonderful getting to spend a lot of time with him . . . with the media and all that shit? There's all these . . . expectations, I guess.” He made a face. “I have exactly zero desire to be a poster child for gay relationships. There's a lot of pressure. Christ, it makes being on the down low look really fucking appealing.”

Sid could empathize. Well, a little. So he said so. And then he added, “If you get a chance, maybe you should point some of this out. You know, explicitly.”

“Ugh. I know this is for a good cause. But still: I just want it to be over.”

“You and me both.” Sid hesitated.

“Anything else on your mind?”

“Uh, yeah.” He hesitated again. “Uh . . . you're sure you like him?”

“Sid. Spill.”

Sid sighed. Heavily. “Fine. Obviously, it's okay if he comes over. And stays over. He doesn't have to sneak in and out—which apparently he did last season.” (Sid didn't even try to keep the accusing note out of his voice; Andrew shouldn't know things like this before he did.)

“It was only once, for fuck's sake. And to be honest, it was really because of Ace.” Tommy smirked. “Bran has a Grade A boner for our opera star. Talk about fan boys! Or fan boners, maybe. Anyway: Ace . . . well, it was one of his bad times. And I don't know if you've noticed, but even by hockey standards, Bran is not exactly . . . well, to quote your fiancé, the most socially adept person in the universe.”

“I can't decide if that's setting the bar too high or too low.”

They both laughed.

“Maybe both. But . . . the last thing Andrew needed then was yet another reminder that he was maybe out of commission. That's why. If it had been just you? We'd have been porking in the kitchen when you came down for your tea.”

Sid shuddered. For real. “Thanks a fucking lot, Tommy. I can never unsee that mental image.”

Tommy smirked again. “Don't mention it. Anything else?”

Sid scowled at him. “Yes. What should I call him?”

“Huh?”

“Saad. What should I call him?”

Tommy looked uncomprehending, so Sid went on, “I mean, if he was just your puck buddy, then I could still call him Saad. But he's not. If he's your boyfriend or whatever, then I can't call him by his last name. So what should I call him?”

“Why don't you just ask him?”

Sid didn't try to hide the horror.

Tommy burst out laughing. “Oh Sid. Sid, Sid, Sid.” He shook his head. “Call him Brandon. Or Bran, maybe. Once you warm up to him, which should happen right after the Yotes win the Cup.”

“That soon?”

Tommy laughed again. And then gave Sid a hug. “Don't take this the wrong way, but I really love you.”

In his best monotone, Sid said, “Of course you do. I'm awesome.” But he hugged Tommy back.

**********

Sid and Tommy headed over to the others, getting there only a second or two before Andrew, who gave them one of his assessing looks.

“Is everything okay?”

“It's fine. I needed Tommy's help installing a system update.” Sid let himself enjoy the appreciative laughter from two members of his audience before, fed up, he turned on the Hawks.

“Okay. What the fuck is up with you three?”

Somewhat surprisingly, it was Kane who took point. “Us? What about what's up with you? Since when did you grow a sense of humor? In public, anyway? You were the last person I expected to be cracking jokes today.” He eyed Jon. “Well, maybe next to last.” He laughed as Jon shoved him.

“I'm funny!” He looked at Andrew and Tommy. “Aren't I funny?”

“Hilarious,” Tommy said. Completely deadpan.

Sid scowled at him. And transferred it to his fiancé. Who wasn't even trying to hide his amusement.

“Seriously, Sid.” Snotty Jon was back. “What did you think you were doing out there?”

“Making jokes. Being funny. Being relaxed.” He attempted to channel Andrew. “Which is far more than I can say for you.” He returned Jon's look of outrage with interest. “Isn't one of the points of this whole . . . production to show us enjoying ourselves?”

“Sid. You're not that good an actor.”

“And you are?”

The two of them had barely gotten into it before Andrew intervened.

“Gentlemen, please.”

Jon ignored him and opened his mouth again, but Andrew stepped closer to him. “I don't think we need any additional commentary from you right now, Jonathan.” His voice gained an edge of steel—which Sid thought was a nice touch. “Don't you agree?” Jon just glared at him, so Andrew raised his eyebrow. And took another step closer. “I believe I asked you a question, Jonathan. You would do well to answer it.”

The edge was now serrated. And Jonathan Toews was apparently not the biggest idiot in the world.

“Fine. Yes. Okay.”

But Andrew wasn't finished. “You might strive for a little more graciousness next time, Jonathan. Do consider that a goal; I know how you like to improve yourself.” Andrew looked him over from head to toe, and then, quite obviously, dismissed him.

“How the fuck did you do that?” Kane was seriously impressed. “And can you teach me?”

Andrew favored him with a smile. Of a sort. “It takes years of practice, Patrick. But if you'd like a lesson, feel free to ask my mother; compared to her, I'm an amateur.” Quite clearly changing the subject, he went on, “Now then. I have a question for you, Patrick.” The steel in his tone had sharpened. Into a scalpel. Sid felt his mood improve even more.

Before he could stop himself, Kane took a half-step backwards; “Uh, what?”

“As I was exiting the men's room, one of the people from _You Can Play_ was going in. He told me, 'We're so glad we listened to Patrick Kane; you're adding so much!'” Andrew advanced a step. “And while I am, of course, delighted to know that my presence is welcomed,” (the sarcasm in his voice was, in Sid's experience, unprecedented), “I would greatly appreciate learning precisely what lies behind that comment. Without bluster or equivocation, if you please. Now.”

Kane wet his lips. “Uh, Andrew: it's nothing bad.”

“Forgive me for being blunt, Patrick, but opinions are like assholes: everybody has one. I'm sure you will understand that I prefer to form my own. Which I will do as soon as you provide me with a specific answer to my question.”

“Okay, okay. I guess I just assumed that Jonny already told you.” This time, he chewed on his lips. “Well, it's just that . . . look, Andrew. Their original pitch was that it just be the five of us. And I told them that you should be included. And that Jonny and I wouldn't do it if you weren't. And the reason why I told them that? I sorta think we already answered that. On camera. You and Sid: you're the first. Well, Sid was the first, but fucking come on, Andrew! If you think for one second that Sid would have done what he did for anybody in the world but you, you're a lot stupider than you look! You're why we're all out. Why we're all here. You're the . . . the fucking _catalyst_ , Andrew!”

Andrew shook his head . . . in shock, Sid thought . . . and maybe something else. His mouth opened, but nothing came out; it probably didn't matter, though, because Kane was on a roll.

“If Sid hadn't met you, he'd still be skating away from anything even resembling an emotion. And me and Jonny would never have even met you. And if we hadn't, and then hadn't seen you and Sid together, Jonny probably wouldn't ever have gotten his head out of his ass long enough to realize what things between the two of us could be. And I'd probably be doing what I do every offseason: trying not to think about him by drinking too much. And I'll bet you anything you like that if you and Sid hadn't fucking eaten each other's face off before the most important game of the entire fucking season, then our little Man-Child here wouldn't have imitated his fucking idol—which is you, Andrew, not Sid!—and done the exact same thing _after_ the game! Come on, Andrew: use your fucking brain!”

Andrew shook his head again, more forcefully this time; it was obvious, even under the makeup, that his face had paled. “Patrick, I am not responsible for anybody's actions but my own. . . .”

“Oh for fuck's sake, Andrew,” Kane interrupted, “nobody said you were! I said you were the catalyst; don't tell me you don't know what that means! You, the goddamn son of the Edison of the Eighties? A catalyst doesn't _act_ , Andrew, it's just _there!_ And _because_ it's there, things change!”

Andrew blinked at him; his face was . . . a study.

Taking a deep breath, Kane said, his voice a little lower, “For Christ's sake, we're not accusing you of anything! If anything, we should be _thanking_ you! And I do!”

“And so do I,” Jon put in, shouldering next to Kane, and drawing him closer. “Whatever happens, in the league or out of it, I'm glad we got our act together.” His voice grew even more definite, and it matched the resolute expression on his face. “We . . . _I_ wasted enough time.”

There were a few moments of silence, then: Andrew studied both of them—intently—and then his gaze turned to Saad. Whatever he saw made him relax slightly, and he cocked an eyebrow at Tommy and Sid.

“Anything to add?”

Tommy grinned. “Sometimes it's good to get a different perspective, Andrew. And for what it's worth: I agree with them. You should be here.”

“You should,” Sid agreed, wrapping his arms around Andrew, and feeling pleased that there was no resistance. “After all, you're part of the team, you know.” He felt a jerk of surprise, but he ignored it. Squeezing a little tighter, he said over Andrew's shoulder, “The Pens—without me even knowing about it—decided to give him a hockey name. Almost two years ago, now.”

Given the impressed expression on his face, Sid decided that he could probably bring himself to call Saad Brandon. Some day. Jon, on the other hand, looked smug.

“I already knew that; Giroux told me. What is it, anyway?”

Kane rolled his eyes. And elbowed him. “For Christ's sake, Jonny: it's 'Ace.' Didn't you hear the Pens screaming it at him on the ice?”

Jon's face grew red, and Sid didn't know if he was happy or not that they were interrupted just then.

“Are you guys ready for the second half?”

“I trust that's a rhetorical question,” Andrew murmured into Sid's ear. Sid repressed a grin, and let Andrew precede him. He took the opportunity to snag Jon's arm.

“Listen: I'm sorry I snapped at you.”

“I'm surprised you admitted it. Ouch!”

Kane drew his foot back. “Be better, Jonny.”

Scowling, Jon said, “Don't you fucking kick me again, Kaner! And Sid . . . yeah, okay, I'm sorry too.” He actually sounded sincere. Or at least Canadian. “I know the pressure's been a lot heavier on you.”

Sid decided to be gracious. “Well, as Andrew would probably say, 'heavier' is a relative term. But for longer? Yeah, for sure. So, I want to ask you for a favor.”

“Okay. What?”

“Jon, if I make a joke out there . . . would you please fucking laugh?”

**********

Before the cameras started for the second half, the moderator told them, “Now, remember: the whole audience has been warned—repeatedly—to keep their questions polite. I have a kill switch for the microphone, so if anyone gets abusive or obscene, I'll use it. Anything else though: try to give some kind of answer, and if you really can't, then say so. Politely.” She scanned each of them. “All right?”

Everybody agreed—or nodded, at least; Kane looked as skeptical as Sid felt.

They got started then, and Sid wasn't at all surprised that the first question was for him alone. He was, however, a little surprised by the question—or the way it was framed, maybe.

“Sid, of all the players up there, you have the reputation as being the one who thinks about nothing but hockey. So, I think it's kind of funny that you're the only one who's not involved with another hockey player. Can you talk about that for us?”

Sid couldn't help himself. “As my fiancé has said to me about a thousand times when I ask him a question like that, 'of course I _can_. And I will.'” He smirked at Andrew. Who smirked right back.

Turning back to the audience, Sid said, “I'll be honest and say that I've asked myself kind of similar questions. And I'll be more honest and admit that, while I'd never really dated anybody before Andrew, for sure not for months and months, I did, you know, kind of casually see a few people for a while.” Sid thought he handled that euphemism pretty well. “And all of them were hockey players.

“I think maybe there's two parts to my answer. The first is that until I met Andrew, I pretty much didn't do anything but play hockey. And when I wasn't playing it, I was thinking about it. And, um, everybody I knew was a hockey player. So, on the one hand, I had this, uh, established pattern in my head, of what a social life was. And everybody that I, um, hung out with, had a preconceived idea of what I was like. There were maybe . . . uh, expectations. So, it's probably fair to say that I never really relaxed enough to let any other part of me—the private part of me, you know?—show. Plus,” he added a little dryly, “it's not like players who are gay and bi really advertise that fact. Maybe they tell people on their teams, but it's for sure not for wider consumption. I never told anybody connected with the Pens about me until after I met Andrew—except for Mario, of course.

“The other part of my answer is this. There's maybe two things I can say here. One is that Andrew and I are a lot alike. We're both, you know, pretty good at what we do, and he's as dedicated to his career as I am to mine. So he understands the . . . requirements of doing what I do: the crazy schedule, the road trips, the pressure. Which is great. The down side, of course, is that he's got the same thing on his side: he travels even more than I do. When he's singing in Europe?” Sid shook his head, remembering. “We practically had to make reservations to talk to each other 'cause of the time difference.

“To finish up my answer, though: the other part is that as similar as Andrew and I are, we're also different. I just said that Andrew gets me in the sense that he understands what it means to have a career in the NHL. When we met, he knew more about hockey than I did about opera, but for sure we were neither of us experts. So, we spent the first months we were friends—just friends— _educating_ each other.” He darted a grin at Andrew, before he got serious again. “I don't know if I can explain it real well, but the fact that he understands hockey but doesn't _live_ it, helped me—helps me, I guess I should say—relax. Which is one of the reasons (and believe me, there's a bunch) why our relationship works. Plus, and this is maybe the most important thing: he also gets me on a personal level like no one I've ever met before. So with Andrew, I don't have to be Sidney Crosby; I can just be me.”

He shrugged. “I hope that answers your question.”

Evidently, it did, because the woman—Sid would have bet she was a hockey mom—thanked him and went to sit down.

Jon got the next question—a follow-up to something he'd said about team dynamics—and then Tommy and Saad got two in a row. One was about how they met, but the other one had clearly been inspired by what had been said during the program, because it started off by saying acknowledging the difficulties in their kind of relationship, asked why they decided to stay in touch after they'd met, and (Sid couldn't help scowling a little) how they'd feel if their careers led to their breaking up. Saad said something media savvy on the last point, but Tommy went further.

“You know: we're both NHL players, but we're also, you know, people. Bran and I like each other a lot, or we wouldn't have decided to take things to the next level. So if things don't work out: I think it's fair to say we'd feel pretty crappy. Just like anybody else in the world would if their first real relationship didn't work out. But . . . I'd rather answer questions about things that we hope will happen, rather than questions about what we hope won't. I mean, wouldn't you?”

It would appear that she would, because she got a little red when people started to clap. But still she thanked them (they were in Canada, after all).

Kane got the next three questions—two about his bad press, which he answered with a complete lack of defensiveness that Sid couldn't have managed, and one really funny one about what was different now that he was Jon's official boyfriend.

“A lot,” Kane quipped. “I don't think Jonny actually thought this through. Now he has to at least pretend to consider watching what I want to watch and eating where I want to eat. Now that I'm the boyfriend, he can't tell me automatically that all of my choices aren't as good as his; he has to wait a while. The other night, he managed 45 seconds: it's a personal best!”

Everybody in the whole place laughed—even Jon.

Andrew's first question, very obviously, did not get the response the asker intended. It was the only question so far to be posed by a man—Sid honestly had no idea what that meant, if in fact it meant anything—and the way it started indicated that the guy had been listening pretty carefully.

“I thought it was interesting to hear Sid talk about how it's the differences between the two of you that really help your relationship. And I mean, it's pretty obvious, just looking at the two of you, that you're different, right?”

Andrew blinked. “You mean, because my shirt has buttons?”

That got another laugh out of everybody—the guy asking the question included.

“Well, that too. Anyway: I wanted to ask if the violence in hockey games bothers you.”

When the five hockey-playing participants on stage had finally calmed down—helped not even a little by the unimpressed look Andrew graced them with—Andrew said, “The short answer to your question is, 'not really.' To elaborate a bit: it depends on what you mean by violence, and what form it takes, and why it happens. It's a contact sport, so almost by definition, it's rough. If something goes beyond what's allowed in the rules, well, that's different. It's extremely intense, and tempers run high; I've seen some fights break out that appear to be, if not inevitable, then at least understandable. However, I've seen others that appear to have been deliberately instigated, and I don't approve of those, nor do I approve of patently provocative actions, especially when accompanied by taunting so mean-spirited that it might almost be considered verbal abuse. That's the line, for me: things that are deliberately intended to hurt, and hurt badly, are beyond the pale.”

The guy in the audience nodded, and then said, “If you don't mind a follow-up question? Why did the rest of them laugh when I asked you that?”

Andrew laughed a little himself then. Ruefully. “When I was singing in Chicago last year, I was attacked by a man with a piece of pipe; we had a . . . scuffle, I suppose, which was captured by a security camera and later appeared online. My good friends on the Pens decided to . . . distribute it freely.”

“What he's not telling you,” Sid said with a wide grin, “is that he won. Easily.”

And Kane added, “Andrew is a total badass. Seriously.”

**********

For the most part, things went pretty well after that. And when the moderator announced they had time for only one more question, Sid didn't even feel the urge to breathe a sigh of relief.

The woman who asked the last question was a little shy, it seemed—the moderator had to ask her to move closer to the microphone.

“This isn't really a question about hockey, or about opera,” she apologized, “but . . . more for general information, I guess. I have twin sons—they're ten—and one of them told his dad and me recently that he thought he was gay. He wasn't sure, but he thought so. And then his brother came to us and asked how you could tell. He said he had no idea; in fact, he said he didn't think about girls _or_ boys. I did some research, and there's so much out stuff out there and a lot of it contradicts other stuff and . . . honestly, I just don't know what to think. And as far as I know, I don't know any other gay people. So I wanted to ask: when did you know? And were you always sure?”

Tommy was the first to respond. “I've always known, I guess. I can remember watching movies and thinking more about the hero than the heroine. And I was way younger than ten. At that point, it wasn't, uh, sexual, you know? But the interest, maybe, was there. But . . . remember: everybody's different.”

Sid had to agree with Tommy, and was honest enough to add that while he knew what he was feeling, it took him a while to figure out what those feelings actually meant. And the others more or less echoed him; Saad, the last of them, looked sheepish when he admitted that he'd turned fifteen or sixteen before he'd started making sense of things.

The moderator chimed in then, and told the woman where she could find some reliable information online. She then turned towards the six of them.

“It's time to end things. I can't thank all of you enough, for coming here today and speaking so honestly and openly. I'm confident that many, many people will find both inspiration and hope from your stories. But . . . I'm sorry, Sid, but I can't let you go without asking you one final question. I know it's been less than six months, and they've been extremely eventful. A lot of good things have happened to you, and a lot of bad things, too. You've been . . . reticent . . . about some of the bad things, I think, but even the little that you have said indicates that while progress is happening, both within the NHL and without, much more needs to be achieved. So my question is this: from your perspective, was it worth it?”

Sid didn't even have to tell himself to smile. “Yes. Definitely.” He opened his mouth to say more . . . hesitated . . . and then gave a mental shrug. “For sure, change does need to happen. And while I don't think I'm in any way a great role model—in fact, I told Tommy once that he was a lot better at being gay than I am!—still, though: anything I can do to make things better for those who come along—or come out, I guess maybe I should say—later on is important.”

He paused. “That maybe sounded like a media sound bite. But I meant it. Mean it. Really mean it. If what I did changes things for the better, for hockey and, well, for, uh, _everybody_ , well . . . that'll be the part of my, um, legacy that'll mean the most to me. But you know,” he turned briefly and grinned at Andrew, “it's not like I didn't get anything out of it. According to Andrew's dad, when I came out I broke the Internet. I have to say, that's probably pretty high on the list of, uh, romantic gestures!”

And when everybody else on the stage laughed, Sid thought to himself, “Finally!”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which five hockey players and an opera singer walk into a bar. . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it made sense to post this chapter along with the previous one; this is fiction in real time!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it!

“Well, that could've gone a lot worse,” Tommy said as they left the building.

“You have no idea how right you are,” Kane said. “Seriously. Trust me on this.”

Jon bumped shoulders with him. “You did good, Peeks. We all did.” He looked around. “Let's go somewhere and have a beer.”

Andrew looked inquiringly at Sid, who didn't hesitate in agreeing. “I could use a drink.”

“If you like, I'll teach the bartender how to make a Zen Garden,” Andrew offered.

“It's a deal,” Sid smiled.

Everybody toasted each other with their first drink, which disappeared almost instantly. While they were waiting for the second round, Andrew said, “There's something I don't understand. What was that question about online fiction all about? I had no idea what they were referring to.”

The eyes of the three Hawks and the other Pen swung immediately to Sid. Who'd been expecting the question, although not so soon. He knew deflection wasn't going to work for long, but still decided to try.

“You mean you don't know?” he asked, striving for a little disbelief.

“Am I in the habit of saying things I don't mean, Captain Crosby? No, I don't. But all of you seemed to. And the question made all of you uncomfortable, to varying degrees, which is why I didn't ask at the time. Would you care to enlighten me?”

“Not really. But I will.”

The drinks came then and Sid took a grateful sip. Well, gulp. “There's this thing,” he said finally. “Fan fiction, it's called.”

“Well, yes: I gathered that much,” Andrew said; he didn't roll his eyes, but his tone did it for him.

“Fan fiction probably started in the 60s or 70s,” Tommy supplied helpfully, thereby earning himself a healthy dose of Sid's appreciation. “After the first _Star Trek_ was canceled, people started writing stories about the characters. To, like, keep the show going. It became kind of a big thing. And when the Internet happened, it got even bigger.”

“There are actually academics who study it,” Jon said, in an absolutely priceless tone that mingled disbelief and disgust; really, Sid thought with a corner of his brain, that tone was worthy of Andrew.

“As interesting as those facts are, they still doesn't explain things to me.”

“There's a subset of fan fiction,” Saad told him. “It's not about the characters, but about the actors who play them. It's called Real People Fiction, or something like that.”

“And what they're all dancing around is that fact that a lot of the original stuff, which was mostly written by a bunch of women, started being all about the male characters getting it on. Kirk and Spock. Kirk slash Spock, is how it's written.” Kane gestured.

“Slash as in the punctuation mark?” Kane nodded, and Sid could see Andrew's mind working, and pinpointed the exact moment when he put it all together. “You mean . . . people actually write stories about you guys?”

Sid sighed. “Some of us.”

“Which ones? You?”

Sid refused to answer, so Tommy did it for him. “Sid and Geno is one of the most popular pairings.”

Andrew's jaw dropped. “You . . . and _Zhenya?”_ He started laughing. Uproariously. To the point that Sid got a little miffed.

“Why is that so funny?” he demanded.

“Oh Sidney,” Andrew said unsteadily as he wiped his eyes, “if you and Zhenya were involved romantically, I'd give it approximately an hour before one of two things happened: either he'd brain you with his stick, or he'd truss you like a turkey and be on the next plane back to Russia. Or possibly both.”

“If I'm so terrible, why did you agree to marry me?” Sid retorted.

“I didn't,” Andrew shot back; “I couldn't, because you've never actually _asked_ me.”

Sid shared his scowl equally with everybody else at the table. All of whom were roaring. Then he turned his attention back to Andrew. “The writers of these things don't seem to think I'm so bad!”

“They don't,” Tommy agreed. “'Course, I think there's a lot more stories about these two,” he nodded at Jon and Kane.

Kane had a funny look on his face. “You seem to know a lot about this shit,” he said; “don't tell us you read them!”

Without missing a beat, Tommy responded, “Like you don't.” Then he grinned, “I _really_ liked the one where you wrote that book.”

After about two seconds, Kane threw his head back and laughed. “I liked that one too!”

Jon and Sid exchanged glances. “You actually read them?” Jon asked Kane. “Why?”

“A lot of them are really good,” Kane said, not at all fazed. “And I'd sure as shit rather read about myself there than on Deadspin. Plus . . .” his voice changed, “it was nice to read about the two of us getting together. Like, romantically.” He darted a glance at Jon. “You know, before. When I didn't think I had a chance.”

Ignoring the others, Jon yanked Kane towards him and kissed him. Thoroughly. When tongues got involved, Sid gulped some more of his drink.

“Well, at least I now know why you all looked so ill at ease,” Andrew said, giving Jon and Kane a little time to recover. “Thank God that's not something I have to deal with!”

This time, it was Tommy and Kane who exchanged glances. Which Andrew, of course, did not miss.

“You're kidding! Aren't you?”

“There was a couple way back,” Tommy finally admitted. “You know, when Ovechkin started all that shit about the CD you made Geno. I didn't read any, but it looked like the basic idea was that you was trying to steal Geno away from Sid.”

Andrew looked positively horrified. Which was gratifying. Kind of.

“And then, when Sid came out,” Tommy went on, “there was this, like, series, where a whole bunch of people wrote up their ideas about who you was. I only looked at one; it was called something like 'There is no joy in Consol,' and basically, everybody on the team is in love with Sid and wants to off you. But Sid tells them that it's true love, so they all have one last orgy instead.” He made a face. “I didn't read very much of it, but it seemed to me that there actually was a pretty fucking lot of joy in Consol. Or joy juice, anyhow.”

Andrew and Sid made near-simultaneous noises of horror. Kane, who was enjoying this far too much in Sid's opinion, leaned forward.

“There's been this explosion of stories ever since the finals,” he smirked. “Seriously, an explosion. I downloaded a couple to read on the plane to Vegas, but . . . I got side-tracked.” He aimed a sappy gaze at Jon, who was practically beaming.

Sid started to roll his eyes—and then noticed Saad already doing it. He ignored any faint twinges of fellowship he might possibly have been inclined to feel. “I need another drink. At least another,” Sid announced. He looked around to flag down the server, and then shot his head back when he saw Andrew take out his phone.

“Sasha! No!”

“No what, Sidney?”

“Don't go looking for these stories. Trust me on this.”

“Sidney, please. I wouldn't waste my time looking for them.” He bent his head over the phone; he was sending a text, so Sid relaxed.

Saad, who changed his drink order (Sid had to restrain his scowl; he hoped Saad wasn't that fickle in everything!), also asked the server for directions to the men's room. After he left the table, Sid stood up.

“Be right back,” he said, ignoring Andrew's raised eyebrows. Tommy started to push himself out of his seat but Sid waved him back; Tommy muttered something but acquiesced.

Saad had already reached the bathroom; he pulled open the door, glanced behind him and saw Sid approaching. He rolled his eyes a little, but held the door for him.

“You do know Tommy has five older brothers, right?” he said, walking up to one of the urinals.

“I do,” Sid said, more or less pleasantly, “but they're not here right now. And I am. And I'm the one who lives with Tommy for most of the year. So.” He decided not to add, “I win.”

“Fine.” Saad gestured to the urinal next to him. “You have to piss, or you just want to watch me do it?”

“You have no idea what I want to watch you do. I don't mind waiting; I know it must be hard for you to concentrate on two things at once.” Saad made a derisive noise, so Sid added, “Don't forget to shake it off.” Which was actually really good advice; Sid was going to have to remember to only use the bathroom in his bedroom whenever Saad came over.

When Saad was finished (and at least he washed his hands thoroughly; that was probably a decimal point in his favor), he turned to Sid and extended his arms, palms out.

“I'm all yours. Take your best shot.”

“Don't tempt me.” Then Sid sighed. “Look. As fun as this whole intimidation routine is . . .”

“Oh, is that what you're doing?”

“Don't you even attempt to chirp me, Saad; I'm not in the mood. Listen: I'll keep this short. Tommy's an adult, and he's entitled to make his own choices. And for whatever reason, he's chosen you. So, I'll respect that. For now. But . . . and this is a big but . . .”

“It sure is,” Saad snarked.

“Shut up and listen to me. Tommy's really important to me. Not just because he's on my team. Personally. I really do think of him as my little brother. I love him like he actually was, and for sure, I think of him as part of my family. Andrew told you that the morning after the final game, and it's true for both of us. Anyway. He's younger than you, but you're not exactly old. And . . . maybe I'm wrong, but I get the sense that you don't exactly have a lot of experience with relationships.” He paused . . . and wasn't surprised when Saad nodded, reluctantly but not exactly grudgingly, conceding the point.

“Plus, you know, you're a hockey player. Which means that you learned your social skills in a rink. And that's not an insult; it's just a fact of life.” He took a deep breath. “Nobody can predict the future. So. All I want from you is a promise. Try to make him happy. Try even harder not to make him unhappy. And if things don't work out, be honest about it and try not to hurt him too much. It's just not realistic to order you not to hurt him at all; that isn't the way life works. But Tommy . . . Tommy's real good at a lot of things. But one thing he's not real good at is hiding the fact that he has a real big heart. If you hurt it deliberately, or needlessly . . . I will end you.” Sid hoped Saad heard the sincerity in his voice, because he meant every word.

He and Saad stared at each other for several long seconds. Then Saad dropped his eyes and sighed. “Okay, Sid. Message received.” He looked up then. “For what it's worth: I don't want to hurt him. Or get hurt by him either. And I'll admit it: you're right. I don't have a lot of experience. In fact . . . and Tommy knows this . . . he's the first guy I've, you know, ever . . . uh . . . wanted to . . . fuck, you know!”

“Hookups in Juniors and drunken sex with other players after games don't count,” Sid agreed, repressing a grin.

“Exactly!” And he sounded so relieved that Sid let his grin escape.

“Okay. Then I guess we understand each other. Oh wait: one more thing.”

Saad made a face. “What?”

Sid made a face in return. “Tommy said I should ask you something.” He hesitated, then bit the bullet. “Should I call you Brandon? Or Bran. Or,” inspired, he added, “I could call you Don.” That sounded stupid. Maybe even more stupid than Bran. But Andrew approved of bran—when it was in cereal, anyway.

“Please not Don. Please.”

Shit.

“Just call me Brandon, Sid.” He smiled a little. “Tommy's really the only one who I like calling me Bran.”

If he were under extreme torture, Sid might admit that he found the sappy look on Saad's face kind of nice. But only then.

“Okay. I guess we're done here. But . . . let's try never to have to have another talk like this again. 'Cause if there's reason to, I'm making Andrew do it.”

It was fascinating to watch someone with his complexion go pale, Sid reflected; one of these days, he was going to have to figure out exactly why he found other people's utter fear of Andrew to be such a turn-on.

**********

Sid practiced mentally on his way back to the table, so when he sat back down, he was able to answer's Andrew's question (“Is everything okay?”) without hesitation.

“It's fine; I was just having a few words with Brandon.” Sid lifted the drink that was (thank God!) waiting for him and took a grateful swig.

Andrew's eyebrows started to ask a question—and then apparently decided it was unnecessary.

“Ah. Well.”

“Was they in English? Or in Sid-speak?”

“Button it, Standish.” Sid dismissed him from his mind. “I'm hungry. Who else wants food? And where should we go?”

Jon took charge, which was fine with Sid. After watching him for a minute or so, he leaned over and asked Kane, “How often does he have to get a new phone? And do they ever fight back?”

Kane laughed. “All the time. He thinks he can frown them into submission. That doesn't even work on me, most of the time.”

Jon gave him the finger; everybody else laughed. Andrew's phone buzzed and he took it out.

“Ah. Bradley,” he said, and opened his texts.

Kane waved his hand in front of Sid's face. “I want to say something to you, Sid. And it's not an insult or anything,” (he elbowed Jon, who had muttered, “what a surprise,”) and kept talking. “You can be really funny. Have you always been like that and just didn't show it, or is it something new? 'Cause even when we all had dinner before the finals, you weren't really like that.”

He did seem to be serious, so Sid decided to answer him. “Before the finals . . . well, sometimes it's hard for me to relax. But I had a good time with you guys, and I even told Andrew so afterwards.” He nudged Andrew. “Didn't I?”

Andrew made an affirmative noise and went back to his phone.

“But . . . to answer the other part of your question: it's kind of both. I mean, obviously I always thought I was funny” (he manfully ignored Tommy), “but . . . oh, I don't know. I was always so busy hiding so much else that I guess I hid that too.” Sid hoped Kane thought he meant the gay thing, because there was no way he was talking about his OCD. There were limits, after all.

“Huh.” Kane appeared to be mulling over Sid's words.

Jon looked up from his phone. “How about sushi?”

“No.” Then: “Andrew: how about sushi?”

Andrew looked up. “What?”

“Do you want sushi?”

“Not particularly. I try to make it a rule not to eat raw fish when I'm not in spitting distance of an ocean.”

Jon considered that and obviously decided it made sense. Or enough sense that he wasn't going to argue. He went back to his phone and so did Andrew.

Sid nudged him again. “What did Bradley want?”

“He answered a question I asked him. Give me a minute, please.”

It really wasn't like Andrew to get this absorbed in his phone when he was out with people, so, curious, Sid leaned over and tried to. . . .

“Oh, for fuck's sake, Sasha! I told you not to do that!” He tried to grab Andrew's phone but Andrew was too quick for him.

“To be precise, Sidney: you told me not to go looking for stories. And I didn't.” Sid made another lunge and Andrew fended him off again. And started laughing. “I considered who would be the most likely person to already know about this . . . phenomenon: Dad, Simon, or Bradley. I chose Bradley. I chose wisely, it seems.”

“Stop looking at that!”

“Oh, all right. Although . . . may I just finish the page I was on?”

“No!”

“Please? It was just getting good.” Then his voice changed. “I rather think you'd . . . enjoy . . . where the story was heading.”

“I doubt it!”

“Really?” Andrew stretched the word out. “Don't you think I know by now the sorts of things you find . . . interesting?”

By this point, Jon had abandoned his phone and everybody at the table was paying attention. Close attention.

Sid could feel his resolve weakening. “Well, of course you do. But. . . .”

Andrew leaned a little closer. His voice got softer. “Picture this, Sidney: we're in the dressing room. At Consol. Just the two of us. You take my hand and lead me to the showers. And. . . .”

Sid swallowed. And despite himself, asked, “And . . . what?”

Andrew breathed, “And . . . the Cup is there too.”

Sid's knee jerked and hit the table. “Really?”

“Really,” Andrew nodded slowly. He parted his lips. “The water is hot. And the air is steamy. It's practically a fog. Hiding us. Covering us. You're naked, Sidney, and your skin . . . is glistening with sweat. Each individual drop is shining . . . and is reflected in the Cup.”

Sid ignored the hoarse “Fuck!” coming from the other side of the table. “Are you naked too?”

Slowly, Andrew shook his head. “No. No, Sidney, I'm not naked now. I was . . . but you put something on me. Do you want to know what I'm wearing, Sidney?”

Sid nodded. And licked his lips.

“I'm wearing . . . your sweater.” Andrew sighed. No, purred. “The one you wore on the ice. And when you put it on me, Sidney, I could practically _feel_ you. Sense you. It was almost as if it was your skin touching mine. Except . . . it was better. Because now . . . I'm wearing your number. I'm yours, Sidney. And then. . . .”

“What?” at least three voices asked.

“Then, you said to me, 'I'm going to claim you now, Sasha. Just like I claimed the Cup out there.'”

“And then you . . . you. . . .” He shook his head a little; he was practically shivering.

Sid hadn't been this close to coming in public since he was sixteen. “What did I do?”

Andrew's eyes melted into his own. “I don't know,” he said in his regular voice; “that's when you interrupted me.”

“You _asshole_!” Sid shoved Andrew away; he tumbled out of his chair and lay on the floor, peals of laughter pouring out of him.

Sid glared balefully at his fiancé, and then transferred his choler to the other inhabitants of the table, who were laughing no less hard; Tommy was pounding Saad's shoulder, and Sid honestly didn't think he'd ever seen Jon laugh like that.

“Are we quite finished?” he asked frostily.

“No,” Kane hiccuped. Disgusted, Sid swiveled around and looked down at Andrew. Who met his gaze with a smile. He was still laughing a little, and he lay there, practically boneless and utterly relaxed.

Sid tried—but couldn't help but respond with a smile of his own.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Of course I am; I'm not made of glass, you know. Here,” he extended his hand, “help me up.”

Sid grasped—and wasn't really surprised when Andrew tugged him down onto the floor. Well, half on the floor and half on top of him. Andrew kissed him twice: once on the lips and then once on the end of his nose.

“I wasn't lying, you know,” he said softly; “that was how the story was written.”

Sid stole another kiss. “Well, I still have no desire to read those things. But . . . maybe you can tell me the rest of it later.”

Another laugh bubbled out of Andrew. “It's a date.”

**********

Over dinner—they finally decided on a steakhouse, and even though Andrew got fish, he stole a couple of bites of Sid's sirloin—Jon asked how the wedding plans were going.

Andrew made a face. “My father,” he announced, “is driving me crazy. The only thing that's keeping me from murdering him is Sidney.” He put his fork down and surveyed the table. “It would appear we have a wide spectrum of non-heterosexual men here. Let me ask you all something: how many of you would actually want an elaborate wedding?”

“Before you answer him,” Sid interjected; “Sasha, you should tell them exactly what you mean by 'elaborate.'”

“Completely over the top, hideously expensive, no-holds-barred, glorious Technicolor movie-musical production number.” He smiled sweetly at Sid. And batted his eyes. “Does that cover it? Dear?”

Swallowing a laugh, Sid intoned, “I think it does, love muffin.”

Jon choked, his mouthful of wine sailing across the table. Where it hit Saad right in the face.

“And Toews racks up another point,” Tommy laughed, handing Saad a napkin.

When he could breathe again, Jon fixed Sid with a glare. “Sid,” he said hoarsely, “you have to stop trying to be funny. I can't take it!”

“Fuck you,” Sid said loftily; “I'm hilarious.”

Andrew patted his cheek. “You certainly are, pumpkin . . . head.” He turned back to the others. “Answer my question, please.”

Jon and Kane exchanged glances; Jon raised his eyebrows, and Kane shrugged.

“I wouldn't want anything especially fancy,” he said, “but don't forget: I've got three sisters. So what I want isn't necessarily going to matter.”

“And I got five older brothers, two of which are already married. If it was up to them, they'd have maybe put on clean socks. My oldest brother? The guy he married is the same way. The other one? His girlfriend wanted the whole deal. And she got it.” Tommy rolled his eyes. And then laughed. “You know who hated almost every single minute of it: from engagement party to send-off? My mom. At the reception, I heard her tell my dad, 'If you don't get me another drink right now, I'm going to take one of these fucking lethal weapons off my feet and stab somebody with it!'”

“I knew there was a reason why I really liked your mother,” Andrew remarked, once he stopped laughing. “Do you think there's any way she'd come to Boston early and talk some sense into my father?”

“Like anybody could. Except maybe your own mom,” Sid added judiciously. “And she's choosing her battles. Come on, Sasha: how many times do I have to tell you: this is important to your dad. This is the only wedding he'd going to get!”

“Oh really? You may, perhaps, be surprised to learn that he's already started a file with ideas for the weddings of his grandchildren. Plural. Most decidedly.” He switched to Daniel's voice. “'And let me point out, Sasha: I'm not getting any younger. Have you and Sidney considered simultaneous surrogates?'”

Sid stared at Andrew for a moment. Then he said slowly, “You know, that's actually not a bad idea.” And then laughed his ass off as Andrew growled at him.

“What's your dad cooking up now?” Tommy asked. “I thought everything was pretty much settled.”

Sid restrained the urge to kick him under the table.

“ _I_ thought so too,” Andrew said morosely. “In fact, I thought we had reached an accommodation on practically everything. Which means, to be honest, that with the exception of the music, everything is far more extravagant than I would have preferred.” He picked up his wine and took an extremely healthy swallow. “Anyway: I thought we were done and he was satisfied. But he keeps adding on things. Coming up with new ideas. It's a freaking nightmare! I'm ashamed to admit it, but I've been making Sidney deal with him lately; the last thing I need is to be arrested for patricide.”

Everybody laughed. Then Tommy asked, “And that's actually working?”

Sid scowled at him.

“For the most part, yes. Sidney raises token objections and then gives in. He then informs me that things could have been worse. While plying me with vodka. Or trying to befuddle me with sex.” He grinned. “I have a decided preference for the latter; would any of you like to know what Sidney looks like wear-- oomph!”

“I think I speak for all of us, Andrew, when I say, 'Fuck, no!'”

“Oh, I don't know, Jonny,” Kane grinned, “maybe what we're imagining is worse!”

“It's not,” Andrew told them. “Ah, well. It'll be over soon. Although: what new scheme has he come up with, Sidney? You were in his study for over an hour last night.”

Shit. Sid assumed his most bored expression. “Trust me, it wasn't anything new at all, Sasha; he wanted to review some of the plans for entertaining the guests, that's all.”

“Oh. Fine, then. Anyway . . . wait just a minute. This is the first I'm hearing about such a thing. _What_ plans for entertaining the guests?”

“You really don't have to worry about it, Sasha; I told you I'd handle him.”

“I don't intend to worry about it, Sidney. However, _you_ should worry about your continued good health if you don't answer my question. What plans?”

“Well,” Sid temporized, “you know that people are coming in from all over. Right?”

“Yes.”

“And some of them are arriving a few days before the wedding.”

“Why?”

“I don't know all of the reasons, Andrew; I'm not a mind-reader.” Would asperity work?

“But you do know some.” That was decidedly not a question.

“Well, yeah. Geno's coming in early. He hates the flights between Russia and here; it takes him at least two or three days to recover.”

“Oh. Well, that makes sense, I suppose.”

Sid had not known Andrew for all of this time to even think about breathing a sigh of relief yet. And a good thing too, because Andrew was giving him a considering look.

“Tell me something . . .” he turned his head, “Tommy: do you by any remote chance have plans to arrive a few days before the wedding too? And Sidney: if you try to kick him, I have several extremely embarrassing pictures of you that I swear I will post on Twitter. Or send to Deadspin.”

“Honestly, Andrew, I don't have plans to arrive a few days before the wedding.” Said with a shit-eating grin on his face; Sid was going to end him.

“How very interesting. When _are_ you going to arrive?”

“Almost a week before. Sid asked me to come and help. Coordinate.”

“Coordinate . . . what?”

“Would that be coordinating the thing that some of the Hawks are arriving a few days early for?” Kane asked in an innocent tone that fooled absolutely no one.

“That would be the thing,” Tommy said, trying not at all to hide his unholy amusement; after Sid ended him, he was going to burn him in effigy.

“I see.” And Sid was, in fact, quite certain that Andrew _did_ see.

“Before you say anything, Sasha, let me tell you that it's for charity.”

“Is it? _It_ being the thing that no one has yet defined for me? Fortunately, I have a brain, and am still capable of deductive reasoning. There is only one question remaining to be asked. Do you expect me to . . . let me see, what verb shall I use? How about _play._ Yes, I think _play_ works nicely in this context. Do you expect me to _play_ any part in this _thing_ that's for charity?”

“Well . . . yes.”

Without another word, Andrew stood up and stalked away; he was halfway across the restaurant when he stopped short. Then he turned around and walked back to the table.

“Jonathan: would you be so good as to let me borrow your phone?”

Without a word, Jon handed it over.

“Thank you.” Andrew accessed the contact list and scrolled through it.

“Perfect.” He walked away again. Sid watched him pause to say something to their waiter before he strode out of sight.

Sid looked around the table; the closest thing to sympathy he could detect was on Saad's face, so maybe he could bring himself to call him Brandon. Jon was judging him, Kane was laughing at him (silently, at least), and Tommy. . . .

“You're a fucking idiot,” Tommy said frankly. “I told you this would happen. Didn't I?”

Sid didn't bother to answer him.

“And if you're sitting there thinking this will all go away if you ignore it, you're more fucking delusional than I thought.”

“Shut up,” Sid muttered.

Tommy opened his mouth again, but snapped it shut as Andrew appeared again. He handed Jon back his phone, sat down, and to the table at large commented, “Charity is such an important thing, isn't it? I do appreciate the opportunity to do things for people who deserve it.” After a beat, he said, “Although in this particular case, perhaps I should say, 'do things _to_ people who deserve it.'”

Sid squirmed. Jon gave him another judgmental look, then made no attempt to hide the fact that he was obviously looking to see who Andrew had called. He actually laughed, then moved the phone so Kane could see too; Kane laughed even harder.

Sid wanted to ask, but there were more important things to do first. “Sasha, don't be mad.” If it sounded like a plea, well, Sid couldn't do anything about that; this was turning out to be even worse than he'd imagined.

Andrew turned, looked him in the eye, and smiled; Sid resisted the urge to slide under the table.

“Sidney: allow me to share some words of wisdom I learned at my grandmother's knee. _Babushka_ Svetlana said to me once, 'You know, _zaichik_ , sometimes people say, “Don't get mad, get even.” But what you should always strive for in life is to get both.'” He smiled again. “And I intend to.”

The server showed up then and put a glass down in front of Andrew.

“Thank you very much,” Andrew said.

“The bartender said to let him know if this is okay; he'd never even heard of a Dead Goose before.”

Andrew held the glass up; the drink was . . . red. Sort of; it had red floating in it. “Please tell him this looks perfect.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sid experiences the truth of Newton's Third Law ("For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction").

Sid turned over in bed and sighed. Again. It was like trying to sleep in a fucking igloo. All of his previous attempts had been rebuffed—brutally and efficiently—but Sid couldn't go on like this.

“Andrew?”

Silence. Then: “Yes?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Are you.” That was not a question, but Sid answered it anyway.

“Yes.”

After a moment, Andrew rolled over; propping himself up on his elbows, he asked, “And for what—precisely—are you sorry?”

“I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry I made all these arrangements without talking to you first. And, maybe more sorry for not _asking_ you if you would do this.”

“Ah. It would appear that you are, in fact, capable of higher thought; it's a pity you don't do it more often. And earlier. For the record: I suggest you make that a goal.”

Tentatively, Sid said, “I really didn't think you'd be this mad.”

Andrew shot up. “And that is fucking bullshit! You knew _exactly_ how angry I would be; if you didn't, you're a moron. And you are many things, Sidney, but not that!”

“I'm not lying to you! I knew you'd be . . . miffed,” he ignored Andrew's snort, “but I honestly didn't think you'd go nuclear. You didn't when we played before the engagement party.”

“The situations are entirely different! That was private—more or less. This is public; it must be, if it's for charity! How do you think I will feel in that situation?”

“I keep telling you, you're better than you think you are.”

“And I derive no comfort from that assessment in this case! 'Better than' doesn't mean good. At all.”

“Nobody will expect you to play like you're a pro.”

“And what will they expect? If you're playing, they're going to expect a lot better than a game of sidewalk shinny—if such a thing even exists. Put yourself in my position, Sidney: who wants to go into a situation _knowing_ that he will be the weakest link?”

Sid was feeling something dark in his gut, and he didn't like it. “Why are you so negative? How do you _know_ you'll be that?”

“Because,” and Andrew was practically hissing now, “I will be the only person on the ice who hasn't played for years! I have no doubt you've also invited Eli; even _he's_ been playing for more than seven years, and while he's certainly not at pro level, at least he knows what he's doing! Or are other people like me taking part? And by 'like me,' I mean complete neophytes and utter amateurs? Are there? If so, do please tell me who!”

The silence between the two of them was charged. Finally, Sid admitted, “There isn't going to be anybody else like you”; the words burned as they left his mouth.

“I thought not! And because of that, my limitations will be painfully obvious. At worst, I'll be a laughingstock; at best, I'll be tolerated. And do you know why I'll be tolerated? Do you?”

Fortunately, he didn't wait for Sid to answer him. “I'll be tolerated solely because of our relationship. Essentially, I'll be your appendage! Or your baggage, or however you want to put it! Because you've devised this plan where I'll be judged according to your standards, not mine! I have little desire to be given a pat on the head and an accolade that 'you know, considering your limitations, you did quite well!' I hate to sound like an egomaniac, but really, Sidney! I am my own person, and I should be judged as such! I repeat: put yourself in my place!”

Sid closed his eyes; unfortunately, all that did was make what he was feeling more intense. After a while, he opened his eyes; Andrew hadn't moved, but his face had changed: his expression was . . . calm.

“Sasha . . .” Sid cleared his throat. “I need to think right now. Is that okay?”

He half-expected Andrew to say something like, “At last!” or “Better late than never!” But instead, all he said was, “Of course.” There was even warmth in his voice now, not the heat of anger—nor the ice of fury; he had, it seemed, achieved his goal.

Sid threw back the covers and started getting dressed.

“Where are you going to go?”

Sid shrugged. “I don't know. For a walk. I need . . . to be doing something. It might . . . help.”

“Do you want company? I'll promise not to talk.”

If he'd been capable of it, Sid would have laughed. At the question, not the promise.

“No. Thanks, but no. I'll be better alone.” He checked his wallet for his key card and shoved it and his phone in his pockets, before leaning over and giving Andrew a quick kiss on the top of his head. “You get some rest.”

“I'll try. Be careful.”

“I will.” And he left.

**********

Sid lost track of time as he wandered aimlessly up and down the streets. His mind never stopped, but it wasn't the frenzy of his needing to do his routines—nor was it the struggle of his trying to resist doing them. It was, he finally realized, like reviewing game tape. Show the play. Stop. Rewind. Review. Imagine changing the angle. Review again. And through it all, his mind . . . analyzed. Considered possibilities. Admitted weaknesses. Adjusted for unknown factors. Asked himself, “Why? Why that move? Why pass then? Why aim high?”

Why. Why. Why.

And then: What if?

He'd stopped walking and was slumped on a bench at a bus stop when Andrew walked up and sat down next to him.

Sid raised his eyes from where they'd been staring at the ground, but he didn't meet Andrew's. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

“Why aren't you in bed?”

“I couldn't sleep. You've been gone for hours; I was worried.”

“Sorry.”

Andrew shook his head. “There's no need to apologize. I hope I'm not intruding . . . but I needed to make sure you were okay.”

“I guess so—I mean, yeah, I'm okay—and of course you're not intruding.” He darted a glance; Andrew looked . . . like Andrew. Natural. Loving. He looked away—and took note of his surroundings; he had no idea. . . . “How'd you find me?”

Andrew huffed out a laugh; Sid took another look; he seemed . . . embarrassed.

“Do you remember when Tommy was polluting your phone with those absurd ring tones for me?”

“How could I forget the Tone Wars? He could never figure out how you changed them back; he made me change my password, like, fifty times.”

“Well, it wouldn't have helped. You see . . . well, to be completely honest, I hacked a back door into your phone; I never had to deal with the passwords at all. And I promise you, Sidney, I've never violated your privacy; until tonight, the only thing I've ever done is give myself a respectable ringtone. But I was worried—you were gone so long—that I tapped into your phone's GPS to find you.”

Sid managed a laugh. “You really are your dad's son. It's okay; don't worry about it, Sasha.” He went back to staring at the ground; he felt Andrew shift, and then settle in next to him.

He couldn't have said how long they sat like that, but eventually, something in him gave him a signal. He loosened his shoulders and leaned back on the bench. Then he put his arm around Andrew.

“Thanks for keeping me company.”

“You don't have to thank me. At all. But . . . you're welcome. I rather enjoy your presence, you know. And when you're in pain—as you obviously are—I like to hang around. In case there's anything I can do to help.”

Sid gave him a look. “You know, I probably shouldn't say this, but sometimes? I think you're too nice. I know you haven't forgotten, Sasha, but let me remind you that we had a pretty serious tussle earlier on. _I_ don't particularly want to be around me right now, so I don't know why you would.”

Andrew waved this aside. “Sidney. Just because we had a disagreement doesn't alter the fact that I love you best.” He sang something softly in Italian.

It felt . . . nice, but. . . . “What does that mean?”

“Roughly translated: 'you are my heart, my soul, my joy, my life.'”

Sid turned and hugged him tightly. Andrew patted his back.

“So tell me, _mon oie:_ why don't you want to be around yourself?”

Sid took a deep breath. And then another one. Before he met Andrew's eyes and said, “Because I'm feeling ashamed of myself. And because I'm a hypocrite.”

Andrew's gaze didn't waver. But he didn't say anything.

“I guess I should be more specific, huh?”

That got him a quick grin. “God is in the details. As I may have mentioned once or twice.”

“You have. Anyway.” He took another breath, held it, and then exhaled noisily. “All right. This is one of those times where waiting isn't going to make things easier. So. I'm feeling ashamed because I didn't really consider your feelings—at all. Or, maybe I should say, not in the right way; I've been debating that, in my mind. I mean, I did think about them—but only in the context of trying to figure out a way to set this whole thing up so that I could . . . well, get what I wanted. I could have said, get you to agree, but I'm trying to be really honest here.

“You were right—what you said back at the hotel. I knew you'd be more than miffed.” He made a derisive noise. “There are limits to even my cluelessness. But I convinced myself that it wasn't going to be a really big deal. Out of selfishness. Because I really wanted to do this. I wanted _us_ to do this. The obvious question is, 'Why?' And I promise I'll try to answer that. In a minute. But first. . . .”

He sighed. “There's another part to the reason why I'm feeling ashamed of myself. And it leads directly into why I'm feeling like a hypocrite. It has to do with . . . well, at least partly, the way my mind works. I don't think it's OCD, exactly, but it's maybe related. You remember when I told you what Tolliver said about how some people with OCD look for affinities?”

“I do.”

“Well, I do that. A lot. And once I find something . . . well, this may sound stupid, but my brain makes an association with it. Once I've, uh, classified something, it kind of stays there. Even if I know that it doesn't really belong there, I kind of put it there anyway.

“To get more specific: you have a hockey name. That means something in the NHL. And it means something to me. Part of my brain associates you with hockey. As being part of my team. Even though I know that you're not, really—I mean, I _know_ that you're an opera singer—my brain still puts you in that slot. And even though I told you once that I'm glad you don't play professionally—and I meant it—I guess I got so spoiled this past season with you being around so much—especially at the end. First, you started coming to the practices, and started skating a lot more afterwards; then, later on, when you were the new intern and were coming to all of the games, the association became, well, stronger. Maybe even primary. Because of course, you weren't singing then.”

He checked in, and saw that Andrew was listening attentively; he even had his thinking crease in place.

“I guess what I'm trying to say is that reality kind of got . . . blurred. Maybe the reason I let myself believe that you wouldn't go ballistic over this is because, at least a little, my brain was creating its own reality. Which kind of coexisted with the real reality—'cause of course I know who you really are, and nobody was more happy than me when you got your voice back safe. And maybe this doesn't make a lot of sense—it's not logical, but then again, OCD isn't either, so maybe it has more to do with that than I said before—but I think . . . I think it has a lot to do with why I ended up treating you the way I did. Which was to essentially ignore the part of you that wasn't about hockey. And hence, as you like to say, the hypocrisy: I became guilty of doing the exact same thing that I've been getting so mad about when other people do it to you: ignoring the you that's you. And Sasha,” he cleared his throat, and forced himself to look directly into Andrew's eyes when he confessed, “I don't have the words to describe how sick I felt inside when you called yourself my 'appendage.' And I hope you know,” he felt himself getting choked up, “that I have never, ever, thought of you that way. And if I live to be a thousand, I can never apologize enough for giving you reason to think that I did.”

For two or three heartbeats, Andrew didn't react: and then he pulled Sid, almost roughly, into his arms. He didn't say anything, but when Sid wrapped his own arms around him, he made an encouraging noise and continued to hold him tightly. They stayed like that for a while, rocking slightly from side to side, and then Andrew patted his back. He shifted a little and loosened his grip; reluctantly, Sid did the same.

“For the record, Sidney,” he said, and his voice held more than a hint of fondness, “I feel it incumbent upon me to clarify one point. I never called myself your appendage, nor did I imply that you thought of me that way. Rather, I said that I would be _viewed_ that way: by person or persons unknown. That point aside, however: thank you for saying all of that. And thank you for apologizing. I think that hypocrisy may be too strong a word, but it's undeniable that there's a similarity in the two situations—to a certain degree, anyway. And by the way: as I know I've mentioned in the past, you're much more insightful than you seem to think you are: I didn't truly make that connection until after you'd left for your walk.”

He squeezed Sid again. “Don't be so hard on yourself, _mon oie_. Okay?”

“I don't know if I can agree to that, Sasha,” Sid said seriously; “I don't really like myself right now.”

“Well, try to remember that there are, or were, extenuating circumstances. What you said about the way your brain works: I found your explanation fascinating. You made it sound as if your OCD—because I have to say, I do think it must have something to do with the disorder, it only makes sense—gives you a framework, or . . . perhaps a better word would be a _lens_ , through which you view, or interpret, actions or events. Did I get that right? Does it function almost as a separate _layer_ of reality? Like a palimpsest? That's when you write over something, but some of the original shows through. Or is it more like a scrim—a partially opaque curtain; they use them a lot on stage.”

“It's maybe more like the second thing,” Sid said after thinking it over. “That's if a scrim could be considered kind of a filter. I think I said that by making the association, my brain, or my OCD, whatever, alters my perceptions, but it doesn't completely hide them. Maybe it's not so different from something in a play. Or an opera.”

“Well, whatever it is: I do hope you're going to discuss it with Dr. Tolliver—if you haven't already.”

“I'll put it on the list.” Sid sighed; “On one of the many lists, I guess I should say.” Andrew reached over and patted his hand; Sid twisted his to extend the contact.

After a minute or so, Sid said, “Should I go on?”

“If you've more to say, then of course I'll listen. Is this the part where you explain why you wanted me to play in this game so much?”

Sid nodded.

“May I say something before you begin? Or, to be precise, ask you something?”

“Sure.”

Andrew rearranged himself, in the process drawing their hands down to rest on his thigh.

“After you left, I was lying in bed thinking about all of this, and I remembered something. Right after you won the Cup—remember when we had that agonizing family meeting with Dad about the wedding?”

“Uh, yeah. How could I not?”

“I suppose. Well, Dad said something that day about his having thought of ways to make hockey part of the wedding plans. How much of this little scheme was his idea?”

Sid considered how to answer. “I guess,” he said finally, “the germ of the idea was his. He presented it as a friendly get-together kind of thing. An exhibition game, or something like that. And that made me think of maybe doing something for charity. 'Cause a lot of exhibition games do that. And then . . . okay, I'll be honest here, it all kind of . . . escalated. As things with your dad can do. But,” his mouth quirked, “in the interests of full disclosure, I'll say that I really didn't do much to discourage it. I mean, it'll be August. Pretty much everybody I know who plays, not to mention me, is really ready to do more than train by the time August comes around.”

Andrew laughed. “That makes sense. I suppose to a certain degree, I'm the same way. The last time I took a semester off to go to school? I practiced every day, of course, but I was desperate to get back on stage again. I even . . . well, never mind; a story for another time. Go on.”

“Isn't that enough?”

“Well . . . no. You haven't gotten to the part where you explain why my presence was so important to you.”

“I kind of hoped you'd forgotten that.”

“In the last two minutes?”

“Stranger things have happened. But I guess not.” He sighed. “Okay. You probably won't be surprised when I tell you that there's two parts to my answer. There's the 'you' part and the 'me' part.”

“I'm not. It's a bit of a pattern, isn't it?”

“It is. And not to get side-tracked, but I actually did bring that up with Tolliver. She said that yeah, often the desire to really qualify analysis, or quantify analysis (I forget exactly how she put it), is very typical of people with OCD. Particularly of the checking variety. And she said she was surprised that I was really only noticing it now.” He gave Andrew a sidelong look. “So I was honest with her and told her that self-analysis wasn't really something I did a lot.” Mock-censorily, he added, “Another of the bad habits I picked up from you.”

“Forgiveness, please.”

“I'll think about it. Anyway: the 'you' part is kind of easy. I mean, some of what I've already said applies here too. But there's also the fact that you genuinely seem to enjoy messing around on the ice. Don't you?”

“I do. Allow me to point out, however, that there is quite a large difference between 'messing around' and playing an actual game. Informally, I'm fine with it—well, depending on who else is involved, at any rate. But formally? That's another story.”

“Huh.” Sid thought about that for a second. “I guess part of the problem is that for me, this kind of thing _is_ informal. Almost by definition.”

Andrew's brow creased briefly. “That . . . makes a good deal of sense. And is not something I would have considered on my own.”

Well, that was something, anyway. “Plus, there's the timing. It's right before the wedding, and I figured . . . well, to be honest, I maybe thought it would be a good way for you to let off some steam. In a kind of socially acceptable way.”

Andrew laughed. “You know me very well. I was thinking myself that I should come up with an outlet that didn't promise future incarceration. Anything else?”

“Well, there's the charity part of it. I was pretty sure that would appeal to you, since I know it's bugging you how much your dad is spending on our wedding.”

“Now _there's_ an understatement. You know, Sidney, my parents don't live a lavish life style. They're extremely generous people, and give extensively to any number of causes, but they don't usually go in for anything so . . . opulent; conspicuous consumption is not exactly their usual mode. So, yes: I concede that point. Anything else?”

“Not really about you.” He hesitated. “As for the 'me' part: before I go on, I want you to promise to hear me out.”

“That sounds ominous. I promise I will do my very best.”

“It's not really. But thanks.” He tried to figure out the best way to begin; sometimes, honesty sucked.

“Okay. I know you know I love you. Do you also know that I love your parents? And stop making that ridiculous face at me; of course you can answer my questions!”

“You know I don't like breaking my promises,” Andrew laughed. “And to answer your question: yes, I do know that. It's quite obvious, and lovely, and makes me very happy. Because I love them too.”

“I know. And good: I'm glad you know that.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. So. Despite the fact that I love your parents, and also despite the fact that I'm pretty sure they love me, there are times . . . well, when I find them kind of hard to take. And before I say another word, I need to tell you that I am 100 percent convinced that it's not them, it's me. Okay?”

“Okay,” Andrew said slowly. “I believe you. But . . . I know I promised to hear you out, Sidney, but may I just say that _I_ find them hard to take sometimes too?”

“I know you do. But I'm pretty sure not in the same way. Because . . . well, not to beat around the bush or anything, but . . . sometimes I just feel so dumb around them.” His hand shot out and covered Andrew's mouth. “No, Andrew: that was not a question. Listen to me, okay?” He waited. “Okay?”

Finally, Andrew nodded.

“It's nothing they did. Or do. I mean that. They're just being themselves. And I wouldn't want them to change or anything, but . . . well, sometimes I don't have a fucking clue what they're talking about. Your dad goes off on these tangents, and sometimes I don't even know what _subject_ he's discussing. And yes, I know he's a genius, but still. Your mom seems to have no trouble following him, but then again, her idea of light reading seems to be philosophy, so maybe that explains it. Sometimes . . . sometimes I just feel stupid.” He stared at the ground for a minute before continuing.

“There's other stuff too—not as important, but I guess maybe I should get it all out. That engagement party: holy fuck, Sasha! I felt like half the people there were surprised that I was house-broken! And for sure, I don't know about any of these rules—like mixing gold and silver, or when it's okay to drink something—and to be honest, I don't really care about stuff like that, but when you add it into the mix, it's just another thing I feel . . . inadequate . . . about. So that's why, when your dad brought up playing a game, I . . . kind of latched on to the idea. 'Cause that's something I can do. Something I'm good at. I guess . . . I guess I wanted to prove that. In this, uh, well, context. You know? And that's why I really wanted you to play too: because, even though I _know_ you know, and you take a lot of pride in my accomplishments . . . I just wanted to do it with you on the ice with me. 'Cause you see: we're getting married right after that. Which is not something I ever really thought I'd ever do.

“Not that you don't already know this about me, Sasha, but . . . it used to be that the only time I was ever really happy was when I was on the ice. Now? Well, that's not true anymore; I'm happier with you than I've ever been. But . . . when I can get them both at the same time?” He managed a grin. “It's . . . win-win, I guess.”

He shifted on the bench. “Anyway. I'll let you talk now. If you want to. If you want to think about what I've said, well, that's fine too. But . . . I guess I have one more thing to say. Or, two things, sort of. One I kind of said already, but it's important, so I'm going to repeat it: I'm sorry I didn't talk to you about the charity game idea earlier. The other thing? If it'll make you feel any better, I am more . . . open, honest, whatever . . . with you than I have ever been with anybody else my entire life. The only other person who even comes close is Tolliver, and even with her . . . well. That's why I'm on her shit list too.” He huffed out a laugh. “There's a moral there, I guess.”

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against Andrew's.

There was silence for a few moments until Andrew sighed, “Oh Sidney—I'm not even sure I know where to begin.”

“Well, how about with the most important thing. Do you accept my apology?”

“I do.”

“Good. Anything else can wait.”

“Some of it may have to. But there are a few things I need to say right now. If you're up to it.”

“If you feel like talking, go ahead; it's your turn.”

“I suppose it is. Here,” and he rearranged them, easing Sid down on the bench, so his head was on Andrew's lap. Andrew started stroking his hair, and after a minute or so, Sid opened his eyes.

“That feels nice.”

“Good. Now just relax and listen to me. First of all, I'm not going to tell you your feelings are wrong; they are, after all, your feelings. But I am going to tell you that in my view, my parents would be horrified to think that you feel stupid around them. They talk as they do around you because they feel comfortable around you—something which is true for an extremely small number of people. I would also hazard a guess that they accept it as given that you are intelligent enough to ask questions if you don't understand something—which you do, Sidney, often: I've heard you. It is simply not true (and again, I'm giving you my opinion) that you are stupid. Your realm of knowledge is different from Mom's, and as for Dad—well, he's a special case, as you pointed out. My parents love you, Sidney. Perhaps more importantly, they like you. And they respect you—which again, is not something I could say about many people. So, please don't confuse lack of knowledge with stupidity; I can assure you they don't.

“Having said that: I do understand how—or why, perhaps—you feel the way you do. I sometimes feel the same way. It's . . . daunting, you know, to be their son. Here's a fun fact: the entire time I was in prep school, Mom had read every single book I was ever assigned in any literature class. Every single one. And could ask me pertinent questions about each of them. And did. And Dad? Dad used to commandeer my science and math text books at the beginning of each term. He'd go through them and _correct_ them. And once a week, over dinner, we'd all discuss my history classes. And the two of them would _supplement_ what I'd been taught in school. Their reenactment of the Hundred Years War lasted an entire weekend!” He laughed softly. “As you've probably already gathered: I had a most unusual upbringing.

“But to get back to you. Even though I'm able to understand your feelings: I wish you'd try to change them. Neither they, nor I, think you're stupid. And if I recall correctly, I told you so earlier tonight. Well, to be precise, I shrieked that opinion at you. You should listen to me, Sidney: you know I wouldn't lie to you.”

“I do know that, Sasha.” Sid reached up and pulled Andrew's head down enough so that they could exchange a quick kiss. “I'm finding it a real comfort right now.”

“Good. Now then: to address some of the other things you said—which I will do quickly, since it isn't worth it to spend a lot of time on this subject: don't let the snobbish attitudes of some of my grandparents' friends distress you in the slightest. I don't. And again: I understand how you must feel, because I get some of the same attitudes myself.” He changed his voice. “'Oh yes; you're the singer. You know, our guild has a monthly luncheon, and I'm quite sure you'd be welcome to provide us with a little, ah, entertainment. Wouldn't it be lovely?'” In his own voice he added dryly, “You may rest assured I did _not_ answer her question. And as for the dress codes and the social rituals? Well, some of them I need to know for work—opera has its own set of protocols and formalities—and some I know because of my upbringing.” He shrugged. “Again: it's not a question of stupidity; in this case, it's a matter of experience.

“Anyway: I think that's enough talking; I can feel you fading. So: I will think more on what you said, and I hope you will do the same, as well as consider what _I've_ just said. And let's plan on revisiting the important topics again. But for now: let's head back to the hotel and spend some time in that exceedingly comfortable bed.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Sid said, clambering to his feet. He hugged Andrew: “Thanks. For listening, and for putting up with me, and for . . . oh, a whole lot of things.”

“You are entirely welcome, _mon oie_. And thank you for explaining things, and for being honest, and, of course, for putting up with me and my temper.”

“God, Sasha,” Sid yawned, “you do have a temper, but try to remember that I deserved it. And probably a whole lot more.”

“That is . . . debatable, I think. But let's not discuss it now. Come on: the sun will be up soon.”

They started walking, hand in hand. After a few blocks, Sid said, “I feel a lot better. After talking, and, well, to be honest, after you said you accepted my apology.”

“I'm glad you do, Sidney. Truly. However: in the interests of complete honesty, I do think I should point something out to you.”

“What?”

“I said I forgive you. And I do. And later on today, we're going to go over the plans for this charity game, and see if we can come up with any ideas about how to make it less . . . fraught, let's say, for everybody concerned. But remember, Sidney: forgiven doesn't mean forgotten.”

Sid groaned. “Until the moon turns green?”

“Or possibly longer.”

 

END OF ACT TWO

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few words (ha!) of explanation about Act Two, now that it's over. (There won't be anything particularly substantive in this note, so do feel free to skip it.)
> 
> When I was writing AFTR, the “epilogue” I had in mind was essentially the last page (not including the final paragraph) of this story (which will see the light of day next week!). When I sat down to write it, which I did almost exactly a year ago, it quickly became apparent that there was more to say. Much more. And while I was happy about that, I was also a little concerned, because I wasn't exactly sure what I should include. In fact, I think making that decision is probably the greatest challenge I faced in the two years I've spent on the “Sid and Andrew” chronicles.
> 
> Writing about the preparations for the wedding of course had to be part of it—but it certainly couldn't be the only thing, because that would be incredibly boring. And I realized that writing this part of Sid and Andrew's life would be materially different from AFTR: because that story, despite its length, was essentially a very private one (and even after Sid came out, I minimized—deliberately--the public fallout). Here, though: that wouldn't be possible.
> 
> Let's take stock: Sid just won the Cup, and Sasha's identity is known. Media frenzy ensues. And it wouldn't be enough to simply allude to the negative aspects of the reaction, as I had in AFTR. No, it was going to have to be explicit. And it was going to have to be realistic (and hence, different for each of them). In addition, once the necessary post-Cup events (the parade and the awards) were over, Sid was going to be without a routine—even his typical offseason one—which would be problematic for him (just because he won the Cup didn't mean that his OCD was magically going to disappear). Andrew, of course, had cleared his schedule for school—and then cleared it even more when he had his surgery (and as Sid helpfully reminded him, Andrew doesn't like not being in control). So . . . they're both a bit rudderless. And, to mangle that metaphor: the course they've been set through the media attention is a fairly rough one.
> 
> What would it be like, I wondered, if we watched the two of them grapple with all of their usual stresses, plus Andrew's unusual stress of recovering further from his surgery, and also the stresses of being thrust into the role of (for lack of a better term) gay celebrities? I really had no idea, so I decided to use my imagination to try and find out. What ensued was the eight chapters you've just finished reading. Now, I have no idea what actual, real-life celebrities go through (not being one!). But all of the things I included (public mobbing, media onslaught, derisive attitudes of multiple kinds) seemed eminently logical, as did things like picking out wedding rings, and having discussions about things like having children and about money. (On that last topic: just wait!)
> 
> All of the foregoing having been said: I was well aware when I finished writing this story that the tone of Act Two was markedly different from the tone of the other two acts. And I worried about that. Quite a bit. Ultimately, I decided to leave it the way it was, because even though I am quite capable of ignoring reality, I am not, it seems, willing to sugar coat all of the unpleasant aspects of life. (Nor do I have the training to do so; I spent years studying renaissance and 18th-century British literature: the renaissance was all about sex, and the 18th-century was all about shit. I need say no more.)
> 
> So I just want to take this opportunity to say thank you to all of you who've stayed with the story thus far. And to let you know that Act Three (which begins tomorrow!) is . . . well, to put this in musical terms, the best (and most rollicking) _cabaletta_ I was capable of producing. There are, of course, still moments of pathos. But that's life!


	16. Chapter 16

The final notes of the piano faded away—fittingly, it was one of the last songs _B_ _abushka_ Svetlana had ever taught him—and Andrew looked towards the booth. The producer was giving him an _extremely_ enthusiastic “thumbs up,” so as soon as the red light went off, he sighed in relief.

“We'll have to wait for confirmation, Dad,” he said, “but it looks like we're finished. You were absolutely perfect; thanks so much for agreeing to do this.”

Daniel pushed back the bench and accepted his son's hug. “You don't have to thank me, Sasha; it was a wonderful idea, and I'm still so flattered that you asked me. Besides,” he added drolly, “it's kept us from each other's throats.”

“So far, at any rate,” Andrew agreed. And laughed when his father tousled his hair.

The producer was walking towards them, along with the recording engineer, his label's representative, and Bradley.

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Success?”

“It couldn't have been better,” the engineer said, and the producer laughed.

“I've worked with him for more than ten years, and he's never this optimistic! Congratulations, Andrew. And Daniel: superb. If you ever give up engineering, consider a career as an accompanist.”

“Those aren't empty words,” the label rep said; “even by your standards, Andrew, this is probably the smoothest recording session I've ever overseen. Under time, under budget: I could kiss you.”

“Somehow, I don't think my fiancé would approve,” Andrew laughed, “but I'll accept the compliment in the spirit in which it was offered. I glad you're pleased.”

“More than pleased. By the way: I gave Bradley the mock-up of the cover art.

“Really?” Andrew's face lit up. “Wonderful! Bradley, may I see?”

They walked away, and as soon as they were out of earshot, Andrew stopped.

“How was it really?”

“Would you calm down, Andrew? It was every bit as good as they said. Better, maybe.” Bradley looked over his shoulder. “Ian sent his office a text half-way through. I peeked; it said 'Folk Grammy.'”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “I think not.”

“Don't be so sure.”

“Really?”

“Really. You couldn't have sounded more natural. Less unforced?” He shook his head. “Whatever. If I were you, I'd prepare yourself for a conversation about a crossover album.”

“Thank you, but no thank you.”

“Why not? Not many people have a second voice like yours.”

“Let's not discuss it now. All right?”

“Fine; but consider this a deferral, not a dismissal.” He handed Andrew a portfolio. “Here's the artwork.”

“Oh, it's lovely! Well: it's lovely of the rest of the family; I look . . . pudgy.”

“You were seven.”

“I was still pudgy.”

“Andrew.” Bradley put his hands on Andrew's shoulders and turned him so they were facing. “I'm going to give you a piece of advice. And prepare yourself, because it's personal. I'm claiming manager's privilege.”

“Fine.”

“Take a cab to the airport, buy a ticket to wherever Sid is right now, and go get laid. Seriously.”

Laughing, Andrew clapped him on the shoulder. “I wish I could, Bradley. But I have too much to do.” He looked at his watch. “However, you'll be pleased to know that I already had plans to follow part of your advice; I'm going away for a few days. At least.”

“Really? I'm shocked. Where are you going, if not to see Sid? You don't have any engagements.”

“I'm going to Saskatchewan.”

“You're kidding me.”

“I'm not.”

“What the hell's in Saskatchewan?”

“A friend. You know Tommy.”

“Of course I do. How'd he convince you to go visit? Especially now.”

“He didn't; it was my idea. It's his Cup day, and I thought I'd go celebrate with him.” He rolled his eyes. “Apparently, there are a gazillion superstitions associated with the Cup; Sidney yammered at me for an hour on the phone the other night. I told him that if I could go to his Cup day, I could go to Tommy's—unless, of course, it was jealousy that was prompting his little jeremiad. Which had the fortunate effect of ending the entire conversation. This is not for general consumption, Bradley, but—aside from Sidney, of course, who is in a class by himself—Tommy's my closest friend on the team. And if I haven't thanked you already, thank you for alerting me to that clip of him right after he won the Cup.”

Bradley shrugged. “You don't have to thank me—just like you didn't have to the first time you did. Andrew, you know how I feel about outing.”

“I do know.” Andrew hesitated. “Bradley, feel free to tell me to shut up, but . . . is there no hope of reconciliation with your parents? It's been so long, and so much has changed societally.”

Grimacing, Bradley said, “I doubt it. I used to hope for it. Now I . . . don't.” He laughed, a little bitterly. “I heard through the grapevine that my parents were pissed with a capital P that I got invited to your engagement party and they didn't.” He stared into space for a minute and then shrugged. “Well, it is what it is, and I am what I am. And one thing I am is getting older. I think it's time to stop being the most notorious polymorphously perverse scion of the Boston Brahmin set.”

“You're hardly that. Although I will say: Dad did not think very much of your dates for the party.”

“Your father is, as usual, correct; I was feeling contrary that night. But you have to admit, Andrew: they were a nice piece of arm candy.”

“That they were,” Andrew agreed. “Especially him. If you will forgive me for saying so, you seem to have a certain type when it comes to your male paramours; not so much your female ones. Although I admit, I'm making that hypothesis based upon a very small sample.”

Bradley shook his head and laughed. “You really are your father's son. And you're right. You know, just between us, my life was easier when I actually believed that I only fucked around with guys so that they'd let their wives fuck me. Or so that their wives would let me fuck them.”

Andrew couldn't control his expression of surprise.

“Oh, come on, Andrew! I know I'm not straight! And I'm not gay either. I'm as ambi as an oyster. I always have been, and I've always known that. But what happened with my parents—when they wouldn't believe me when I was outed—when they accused me . . . no, I'm not going there. There's no point in reliving it. For the millionth time. I need to find myself a stable relationship—for preference, a couple. Mixed-sex. One that plays nicely, understands that submission is a gift, and actually knows which fork is for the salad.”

“Well, if you're willing to compromise on the last criterion,” Andrew said with a straight face, “I might be able to introduce you to a couple of Sidney's colleagues.”

“No dice; the fork is a hard limit.”

They both laughed.

“God, we sound so snobbish,” Andrew said.

“Hey, we can't help the families we were born into. Or, as my mother would insist on saying, the families into which we were born.”

“I suppose. You know, Sidney admitted to me recently that he has issues with . . . well, to be frank, a lot of the trappings of our families' quote unquote social sphere.”

“I'd be surprised if he didn't,” Bradley said after thinking it over; “he's very down-to-earth, your hockey player. And your dad's family is . . . a little much. I have to say, though, Andrew: I would never have guessed it from the party; he seemed . . . well, himself. He did come across as a little awkward during your grandfather's toast, but that's completely understandable: so did your grandfather. And when Sid spoke—he can be quite eloquent when he feels strongly. Which he obviously does about you. From what I could overhear, he set the hearts of more than a few matinee ladies aflutter.”

“Of course he did,” Andrew said proudly.

“Spare me. And you're as bad as he is; how long did it take you to rewrite the verse to that song?”

“Not long at all.” Despite himself, Andrew felt a little defensive. “I couldn't sing it the way it was, and the rest of the song was perfect!”

“Hey, I'm not the copyright police. You know, he's been good for you; your captain has loosened you up—and don't even go there; that's not what I meant, and you know it. You're more relaxed. You smile more. And your singing? You're the most technically accomplished singer I've ever heard, Andrew, and you're one of the best actors around: but you know as well as I do that you always held something back. Or held yourself in, maybe. I don't think you do that anymore—and judging from Tanglewood, and even this recording session—everybody in the world will soon know it. This season you're going to set the world on fire, Andrew—again—and I can't wait to see it.”

A little embarrassed, Andrew dipped his head. “Well, thank you, Bradley; that's quite the encomium. And . . . you're right, of course. At least in terms of what you said about Sidney. He's been so, so good for me. You know, perhaps the last word I would ever have imagined using to describe myself is 'giddy.' But . . . well. I am. Whenever I think about him. And of us. Married. For the rest of our lives.” He sighed happily. “The thought is positively beatific.”

“To quote my mother—twice in a single conversation, this must be a new record—'such an open display is unseemly.'”

Andrew said something very rude in Italian.

“I couldn't agree more,” Bradley laughed. “Anyway: have a good time in Saskatchewan; say hi to Tommy for me.”

“I will. Oh, before I go: what have you and Dad been cooking up? You've had your heads together a lot these past two days.”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

Andrew gave him a measuring look . . . and gave up when Bradley just grinned at him.

“Fine: keep your secrets. I have to say: I hope Sidney never learns to resist that particular expression of mine.”

“He won't; he didn't grow up in Boston, after all.” They exchanged a laugh and a quick hug.

“Take care of yourself, Bradley; will I see you before the wedding?”

“Of course you will; your father's invited me to several pre-wedding events. Including, of course, your hockey debut. Which wild horses couldn't keep me away from. I can't imagine how Sid. . . . Oh, no. Jesus, Andrew, I know that look too. What are you planning?”

“To pull a phrase from the air, it has nothing to do with you.”

“So? Give me a hint at least; I could use a good laugh.”

“I will if you'll tell me what scheme Dad's embroiled you in. _Quid pro quo_ , Bradley.”

“Don't quote Latin to me; it gives me flashbacks to prep school. And no deal.”

“Fine. Then you'll just have to wait and see.”

“I guess so. But perhaps you would deign to answer a simple, general question.”

“I might. What's the question?”

“Is going to Saskatchewan part of whatever it is you're plotting?”

Andrew couldn't repress a grin. An evil one. “Oh Bradley: Saskatchewan is just the first stop.”

**********

Sid glared at his phone. He'd been glaring at his phone for over an hour. This time. He looked at the clock and muttered, “Fuck.” Not for the first time.

Then he sighed, gave in, and accessed speed dial ten.

Instead of the usual cheerful, “Hey, Sid,” he heard, “He's not here yet, Sid.”

Blustering, Sid accused, “Why do you think that's why I'm calling?”

“Because I ain't lived with you for close to two years for free, that's why,” Tommy snapped back. “Jesus Christ, Sid: Saskatoon ain't the end of the frigging _galaxy_ , you know. People come and go all the fucking time!”

“I know that!” Sid retorted. He considered being stubborn . . . and then gave it up. “Of course I want to know Andrew got there safely. But that isn't why I'm calling you. This time,” he muttered.

It must have been the admission, because Tommy's voice lost its attitude. Well, some of it. “Yeah? Then why _are_ you calling?”

“Because I have something to say to you. You. And it's not about Andrew, either.”

“Really? Color me amazed.” But since that was said with a laugh, Sid figured Tommy believed him. “Okay. What?”

“Are you alone?”

A sigh. “Sid. I'm in the fricking airport. Of course I'm not alone.”

Scowling, Sid said, “You know what I mean.” He could almost _hear_ Tommy rolling his eyes.

“Yes, Sid. If you discount the fact that I'm in the largest city in a Canadian province, I'm alone. There are no other hockey players in earshot. None that I recognize, anyway.”

Sid supposed that would have to do. “All right. Listen, Tommy: I probably don't even need to say this to you, but it's been bugging me, so I'm going to. I really hope you have a fantastic day with the Cup. You deserve it. Maybe nobody else on the team deserves it more than you do.”

After a pause, Tommy said, “Thanks, Sid. I appreciate you saying that, I really do. But . . . why has that been bugging you?”

“I haven't gotten to that part yet; I thought you knew me.”

This time, when Tommy laughed, Sid heard the . . . okay, he was going to go with affectionate . . . note in his voice. And he relaxed a little more.

“Well, don't take all day; Ace's plane is due to land in five minutes.”

“It's just . . . okay. Tommy: you do know _why_ I'm not there too, right?”

“Of course I do! You don't even need to say it. And I appreciate it, Sid, I really do. The fact that you're not coming because then it wouldn't be about me. The same way that I appreciate Ace coming all this way to make sure that I know my day with the Cup _is_ about me. So don't spaz out about it, okay?”

“I'll try not to,” Sid said, trying to hide his sense of relief. Which didn't exactly make a lot of sense since he was on the phone, but whatever. “And I hope that Andrew being there isn't a distraction. I told him that he might be recognized.”

“Yeah? What'd he say?”

Attempting an Andrew voice, Sid intoned, “I do have some small talent at blending in, Sidney.”

Tommy laughed heartily, and Sid joined in.

“He told me himself that he wouldn't come if I thought it would cause a problem. I can't imagine why, but he seemed really worried about it, so to make him feel better, I told him I'd just stick him in the middle of my brothers; in that crowd, nobody will even see him!”

“Well, make sure you take a picture.” Sid hesitated. “Uh. . . .”

A snort. “Sid. You don't even have to ask. I'll do my best. But I can't guarantee anything, you know that.”

“I know, I know. Well, I'll hope for the best. Anyway: have a great Cup day, Tommy. And I'll be there in spirit; I hope you know that.”

“I do, Sid. Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

**********

Shaking his head a little, Tommy pocketed his phone and walked over to check the arrivals board again. Not for the first time, he thought about what a mess of contradictions Sid was. In some ways, he was the most clueless person Tommy had ever met, and since 90 percent of Tommy's acquaintance were hockey players and most of the remaining 10 percent were his brothers, that was saying something. And then, there was the . . . thoughtful, insightful, and downright caring side of Sid that only a very few people in the entire world ever saw. That he was one of them was, as usual, sometimes hard for him to grasp. And, also as usual, made him feel warm inside.

And then there was Ace. Tommy had, literally, never met a person like Andrew in his entire life. Tommy had known for a while that Andrew wanted to come—he'd asked Tommy when his Cup day was before Tommy had even left Pittsburgh—but it still made him feel good. And now that he knew Ace wanted his help with something, it made him feel even better. Of course, he thought, suppressing a mental snicker, he'd have walked all the way to Boston to help Ace with his current . . . project.

The loudspeaker squawked, and Tommy headed over to the gate, an expectant grin lighting up his face.

**********

“Your family,” Andrew announced, flopping on the bed, “is too much!”

“Yeah? Too much in a good way, I hope.”

“Definitely. I haven't laughed this hard in . . . well, maybe ever! You know, while I was waiting for my connecting flight, I found myself wondering—not for the first time!—what it would be like having five older brothers, and if they were anything like you. Now, having seen all of you together, I'm wondering how your parents have stayed sane!”

“Ma wonders the same thing—often,” Tommy smirked. “What'd you think of the whole band of Standish men?”

“I think it's a great pity that you're the only one in the NHL. Forget the Staals: the Standishs would set a new standard for chirping!”

“I guess we would. For what it's worth, Ace: everybody liked you a lot. If they hadn't, they would have been polite. And that would have been . . . pretty fucking deadly!”

“Well, I certainly liked them. And I already liked your parents. Everybody's made me feel so welcome. But Tommy: you know, I could have gone to a hotel; I hope having me here isn't an inconvenience.”

Rolling his eyes, Tommy said, “Do you honestly think one more person makes a difference? It's fine, Andrew: don't sweat it. And besides, the nearest hotel is miles away. Plus: I'd much rather share with you than with one of my brothers.” He looked away for a second, and Andrew guessed what was coming. “You sure you don't mind sharing? 'Cause I can sleep on the floor.”

“Absolutely not. I told you I didn't mind sharing. And I meant it. Besides,” Andrew put on an innocent face, “it wouldn't be the first time we've shared a bed.”

“Yeah, but I'll probably remember it in the morning this time.” They both laughed.

Andrew glanced at his watch. “I should give Sidney a call before it gets much later.” He took his phone out.

“Okay; I'll give you some privacy.”

“Don't be silly; I'm sure he'll want to talk to you too. In fact: here. Sit down next to me.”

Tommy obeyed. “Okay. Why?”

“Because now I can tell Sidney that we're lying on your bed together. I want to hear him gnash his teeth.”

“I knew you'd fit right in around here.”

**********

When Sid had finished blowing his nose on one of the handkerchiefs he'd stolen from Andrew (which he refused to feel guilty about; he needed the comfort), he looked back at his laptop to see Tolliver regarding him sympathetically.

“Sorry.”

“Please, Sid; we're well beyond that.” She paused. “I know it's hard. I know you feel frustrated and overwhelmed. But you have to believe me when I tell you: you're doing a good job.”

Sid scoffed a little. “Good job? At what? We haven't exactly been talking about my routines lately.”

“No, we haven't. We've been doing something equally important: exploring the other areas where your OCD is manifesting itself. Despite what the popular conception of OCD is, it is not, in fact, just about behaviors and rituals. OCD can color—and affect—every area of a person's life: you yourself have used the word 'insidious' to describe it. You're doing what you can to recognize the signs that indicate when—or where—OCD may be playing a role—often, a hidden role—in your life. You're asking questions. That's vitally important, Sid.”

After a few seconds, Sid sighed. “I guess. But . . . at least with my routines, I had things I could measure.”

She nodded. “That's true. And it's also true—and I don't tell you this to discourage you—that sometimes you won't ever find answers to your questions. Asking yourself 'why' you do something, or 'why' you think the way you do is part of the process. Unfortunately, there are times when there are no good answers. Often, you just have to accept things. I know you don't like hearing that, Sid, but it's true.”

Sid sighed again. And then, nodding, conceded the point.

Tolliver leaned back in her chair—which Sid now knew indicated she was moving to a personal discussion.

“How are things with Andrew? And the wedding?”

“Andrew's good. He's in Saskatchewan for Tommy's Cup day today. And . . . the wedding?” He rolled his eyes. “At this point, only Andrew's father can say for sure.” He enjoyed her chuckle, before he asked, a little shyly, “Are you going to be able to come? I hope so, but I forgot about your vacation.”

She nodded vigorously. “Oh, I'll only be on the Cape; we'll just drive up for the day. Believe me, Sid: I wouldn't miss it.”

Hearing that made Sid happy. And he got even happier when she added, “And in case you were worried: if it comes up, simply introduce me as a friend of Andrew's family. It's the truth, after all.”

“Okay.”

She opened her mouth—probably to end the session—but Sid started talking again.

“Before you go: one thing.”

She looked inquiringly at him.

“I figured it out. Finally.”

Understanding crossed her face. “Did you?”

“Yeah. At least,” he corrected himself, “I think so. It wasn't that Andrew came to all the games. You've never made me feel that having Andrew supporting me is a bad thing. It's the fact that I said that I couldn't have done it without him. And—even though I don't think I said this out loud, but you probably knew—that I felt I wouldn't be able to do it without him in the future. That . . . changes things. From, I don't know, actively working on solving the problem, to kind of just . . . accepting things. As the status quo, maybe. Accepting defeat before it actually happens.”

Tolliver smiled at him. “You're exactly right. Good for you, Sid; remember: when things aren't part of the solution, they become part of the problem.”

They talked for another minute or so, and then ended the call. Sid stared into space for a while. He supposed she was right. And then he thought about Andrew carrying him into the janitor's closet in Boston. And what had happened afterwards.

He smirked. He kind of thought he was right too.

++++++++++

Sid was lying in bed reading when he heard Andrew's ring tone; he smiled, eager to get a full report. He reached over and, repressing a wince, picked up his phone.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. How are you, _mon oie_?”

“A little sore; I took an unexpected hit during training this afternoon. But I'm okay. How are you?”

“I'm fine. Having a great time. Tommy is so, so happy!”

“He certainly looked that way in the picture you sent me.”

“I know; that was a very lucky shot. He's had a wonderful day so far. And his evening looks to be unexpectedly enjoyable as well.”

“I'm sure it will be,” Sid said dryly, “since he's lucky enough to be sleeping with you.”

“Do take the acid out of your tone, Captain Crosby; it doesn't become you. If you know anything at all, you should know that I love you best.”

“I do know that, Sasha. But it's traditional for me to disapprove of anyone who gets to share a bed with you. You know, like never mixing silver and gold.” He enjoyed Andrew's snorts of laughter.

“Well, if it will set your mind at ease, Sidney: I'm sleeping alone tonight—if you exclude the Standish's dog and two cats, all of which seem to have taken a liking to me. Brandon surprised Tommy by showing up first thing this morning, so I gave up my half of Tommy's bed to him.”

“Well, good. Uh, how did he behave?”

“He meaning who?”

“Ugh. Saad. Christ: okay, Brandon.”

“You're never going to be able to say it if you don't practice. And if I take your question properly: he was fine. Tommy had told Brandon not to come; he didn't want him to feel . . . awkward. About the win, I mean. Or loss, I suppose. Brandon told Tommy that he was an idiot, and of course he was going to come. His demeanor was entirely 'I am here as Tommy's boyfriend, not as a NHL player.' Still, during the public display of the Cup—at Tommy's old high school—he and I hung out unobtrusively.” He laughed. “I told Brandon he needed to wear a disguise, so I plopped one of your Pens caps on his head—fortunately, I brought an assortment with me.”

Sid had to laugh. “I wish I'd been able to see that!”

“Well, I did manage to take a picture—but Brandon made me promise I wouldn't send it to anyone, so you'll have to wait until we're together to see it. Anyway: I think some people drove for hours to come see the Cup; Louise told me that everybody Tommy's ever met in his entire life was there. And then the family and approximately a gazillion of their closest friends came back here for a barbecue. Pot luck, but I was still able to gorge myself with acceptable choices.”

“It sounds real nice; I'm glad. In the interests of full disclosure, though, which you know is one of my goals these days: don't think for a minute that my Cup day is going to be as relaxed.”

“You can't see me, Sidney, but I've put on my wry face. Dad was kind enough to share the news with me that Cole Harbour has updated your sign. Something about 'Sidney, we proudly await the Cup!' I believe.”

“Tay's sent me like a thousand pictures of it,” Sid sighed. “How'd your dad find out? From her?”

“Possibly. Or, more likely, he has the entire town under constant surveillance.”

“I wouldn't put it past him.” He yawned. “Sorry.”

“Don't be. You should get some rest.”

“In a minute. When do you go home?”

“Not for a bit. I'm staying here another day or two, and then I thought I might go to Winnipeg; Jonathan invited me, and who knows when I'll be in this area again. And before you start with me, Sidney: if I go home, the current fragile truce between me and Dad will disintegrate. Which is why I may head to eastern Canada after that; I still want to meet Linda Staal. There's even a chance I may pop into Nova Scotia before I go home. You won't mind if I make myself comfortable in your house, do you?”

“Of course not! When will you get there? I'll be done here soon.”

“Really? How extraordinary! Imagine that! What a coincidence!”

“Fuck you, Andrew!” Sid choked out over his giggles. “Seriously: that's great news! I've been missing you.”

“And I you. I've gotten so used to seeing you practically every day; this training session has been quite an unwelcome reminder. And next season is going to be a very rude adjustment.”

“I know. Don't remind me.” Tolliver's last words that afternoon had been on that very subject—albeit from a different angle.

“All right, I won't. I will, however, remind you that the lovely little meeting about our finances is not long after you get home.”

“Ugh.”

“I couldn't agree more. And then we need to go to New York to pick up our wedding rings. I told Mom and Dad that I was going to get them without you, and they advised against it. If yours needs the size adjusted, it's better you be there in person. And time is getting short, I suppose.”

“It is. I can't wait.”

“Neither can I. _Sposo mio_.”

“ _Mon mari_.”

“Aren't we multilingual. Too bad we're not together; my tongue misses your impressive ass.”

Sid laughed. And rearranged himself in bed. “I could manage to stay awake for a while if you want to tell me more.”

“As appealing as that idea is: the only place I'm assured of some privacy is the bathroom, and given the cast of thousands around here, the chances of my being undisturbed long enough for me to do that topic justice are practically nil. But I shall dream of it—and you—tonight, Sidney.”

“Me too. Love you, Sasha.”

“ _Anch'io ti amo, mio core._ ”

Sid put his phone back on the nightstand, and tried to get comfortable. Before he managed that feat, his phone buzzed; he reached over and snagged it, to see a text from Tommy. 

> _So far so good._

Sid smiled happily.

**********

When Sid got off the plane in Halifax, he was thrilled to see Andrew waiting for him. He waved, and was rewarded by a return wave and a blinding grin. Sid couldn't rush, of course—there were people in front of him—but as soon as he reached Andrew, he hugged him—reveling in the fact that he didn't have to hide it anymore. To further celebrate that fact, he leaned in for a kiss. Which Andrew was happy to bestow.

Sid didn't give a shit about the slew of camera phones aimed in their direction.

“You didn't have to meet me,” he told Andrew.

“Do you honestly think I would—no, could—wait patiently at home while you made your leisurely way there? No, no, a thousand times no, _mon oie_. The sooner we're at home, the faster we can start making up for lost time.”

“I really like the way you think. Let's go get my stuff.”

Andrew yanked Sid's duffle off of his shoulder. “Allow me.”

As soon as they took two steps, Sid stopped short.

“What the hell happened to you? Why are you limping?”

Andrew made a face. “I fell down.”

“You did? Where?”

“Thunder Bay. Didn't I tell you? And then Taylor and I were skating this morning and I tripped over myself and made everything worse.”

Sid shook his head. “Wait. You and Tay were _skating_?”

“Of course,” Andrew said airily. “Your little game is approaching, after all; I decided I needed some practice. And your sister was kind enough to indulge me. Now come along, Sidney. Unless you want to get arrested for gross indecency in the parking lot. Or whatever the Canadian equivalent is.”

“I bet we wouldn't get arrested.”

“Why not?”

“I'd just tell them we were practicing for when the Cup gets here. I have it on good authority that line's a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card.”

Andrew burst out laughing. “As fun as it might be testing your theory: I'd rather not. They'd probably want pictures. And not to rain on your parade, Captain Crosby—in this case, quite literally—we're going to have a little chat, you and I, about what is and is not acceptable behavior when the Cup gets here. If I heard one story in Saskatchewan, I heard two hundred. And I also heard some alarming noises from Tommy's bedroom.”

“We can chat all you want. But remember, Sasha: we're in Canada. Cup traditions are _sacred!_ ”

**********

Sid was quiet when they left Andrew's uncle's office.

“Is something wrong?”

He shook himself mentally. “No. Well, not really. It's . . . a lot. To take in, I mean.”

“It's a lot in more than one way,” Andrew remarked dryly. “Remind me never to fight you for the check. Ever again.”

“Hey! Don't fuck around with tradition. Bad things happen then. Besides,” Sid grinned, “once I retire, I'll be poor. You'll have to support me.”

“You won't be making a salary. However, I doubt very much whether you'll ever be poor.”

“Whatever. You won't throw me out when I can't pay the rent, will you? Oh wait: you don't pay rent either. Because you own the entire building.”

“Why are you so fixated on that?” Andrew complained. “I didn't buy it; I inherited it. And I'm not the one who has _two_ houses.”

“This is true.” He rubbed his shoulder against Andrew's. “I'm only teasing you, Sasha. But like I said: it is a lot to . . . well, assimilate, I guess.”

“Not to mention the fact that I thought our respective financial advisors were about three seconds from excusing themselves and going to have a mutual wank in the restroom.”

Sid honked. “I don't think I've _ever_ seen him look so happy.”

“That was happy?”

“For him it was. You should have seen him when I bought you the piano; he looked like he was ready to go dig his own grave.” Andrew threw his head back and laughed; Sid enjoyed watching him.

They strolled down the street; Sid had never been in this part of Boston before. Not that they were all that far from Andrew's apartment.

“Boston's a nice city,” he told Andrew; “I like the fact that you can walk across it. And it has neighborhoods.”

“It does, although fewer than it used to. But I like it too; I've never been to another city—well, in the U.S., anyway—that I would prefer living in. Although: when we have children, Sidney, I'd like to raise them in a less urban environment. At least part of the time.”

“Works for me. It'd be harder on you, though: more travel.” He hesitated. “I know we haven't really discussed it, but . . . once I retire, I definitely want to spend more of the year in Canada, but it doesn't make a lot of sense for you: it'd take you forever to get anywhere.”

“I know. Well, we'll figure it out. And if I understood things properly, we will definitely have to split our time between Canada and the U.S.” He made a face. “I thought I was marrying the man I loved, not underwriting some tax attorney's new vacation home.”

Sid nodded emphatically in agreement. “I know. Well, both our guys said we should put more money in real estate. We'll buy ourselves a place. For us and our kids.”

“That sounds wonderful!” He glanced at his watch. “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.” He snickered as he moved out of range of Andrew's elbow.

“There's a nice place not far from here; the seafood is superb, but there are other options.”

“Sounds good.”

**********

Sid looked around appreciatively after they were seated. “This is nice. I think one of the reasons I like Boston so much is that it's this mixture of old and new. And I like where your parents live—in fact, I kind of like most of what I've seen of Massachusetts. Maybe we should look for a place around here—maybe out where you sang with the symphony.”

“The Berkshires might be a little far, but it's certainly worth considering. I liked the area near where we had car trouble; that distance might be doable. Anyway: I'm having wine, I think; do you want some, or would you prefer beer?”

They ordered drinks and then looked over the menu; as usual, it took Sid a lot longer to decide what to have.

“Do you think I'd like the lamb chops?” he asked, looking up—just in time to see Andrew go absolutely rigid.

“Sasha? What's wrong?”

It took Andrew a few seconds to respond. “A blast from the past.”

“What do you mean?”

Andrew leaned over the table. “Be very discreet. Behind you, to your left. There's a party of three: two men and a woman. Do you see the blond man?”

Sid took a quick look. “Yeah. Do you know him?”

“You might say so. That's Cliff.”

Immediately Sid asked, “Do you want to leave?”

It took Andrew a few seconds to decide. Which was probably a good thing, since it gave Sid a chance to curb the tsunami of rage welling inside of him.

“No,” Andrew finally said. “Or, to be more precise: yes. But I won't. I refuse to let him have any power over me. Or my actions. Even if it's just the sight of him.”

That was something Sid could understand. He stood up. “At least switch places with me.” Andrew gave him a grateful look as he complied.

“I'm sorry,” he said once they were resettled. “I wasn't expecting this, so it was a bit of a shock.”

“I guess so,” Sid said, moving his legs so he could press his knees up against Andrew's. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Commencement Day.”

Rolling his eyes for effect, Sid asked, “Which is?”

“Our graduation ceremony from prep school,” Andrew explained, managing a slight laugh.

“So: about ten years.”

“More or less. Thank you,” he said to their server who was putting down their drinks.

“You're welcome, Mr. Singleton. Before you and Mr. Crosby decide: I told the chef you were here, and he's coming out to make some suggestions.”

“How nice of him,” Andrew said with a smile that only Sid could tell was patently false. When she left, he murmured, “So much for my hopes of our flying under the radar.” He paused. And then he cocked his head in thought. “Actually, you know what? This might be precisely what I need.” And slowly, his face became suffused with one of Sid's favorite expressions: evil incarnate. Lifting his glass to Sid, he said in his normal voice, “To your good health, Captain Crosby.”

“ _Sal_ _ût._ ” They clinked. While Andrew sipped his wine, lost in pleasant (to him, anyway) contemplation, Sid took the opportunity to size up Cliff. Decent suit, he supposed, if a little too trendy for his tastes. And the same might be said of its wearer. He looked older than Andrew did, Sid was pleased to note, and although it was hard to tell in that suit, from his face, Sid guessed he wasn't in nearly as good shape.

“What do you think?” Andrew asked him—and his voice was full of humor. Sid studied him: now that he'd had time to adjust—and strategize, no doubt—Andrew actually looked relaxed.

“If he doesn't stop eating all those empty carbs, he's going to get really fat.” And Sid's heart eased the rest of the way when Andrew burst out laughing.

“He used to have the most atrocious diet. Granted, we were fifteen, so we could eat anything, but still. Once when I was over at his house, he made us nachos. I remember staring at the microwave in fascination as this great big block of Velveeta dissolved into a molten goo. It was a new experience for me. And not one I was eager to repeat, even in those days.”

“You're such a food snob,” Sid teased.

“Yep. And proud of it.”

As if on cue, the chef showed up then, holding a silver platter with a dome on top of it; Sid didn't think those actually existed. Outside of a movie, anyway. It was immediately apparent that the chef was Italian, because even though he spoke mostly in English (at least in the beginning), he had a very pronounced accent. He was also very loud and very dramatic: like Ovechkin, but much better looking.

He talked so quickly Sid's head began to spin, but he did manage to glean the fact that he was Andrew's biggest fan, that he had something something when he heard about Andrew's throat (Sid only got that because of his gestures), that he was going to start rooting for the Pens, he already had the t-shirt, and that he was going to create a something something for their meal, they only had to tell him what they were in the mood for, and in the meantime, they should enjoy something something—presumably whatever was under the dome, which he placed on their table.

Andrew, of course, had no problem keeping up. He said thank you in at least two languages, and then the two of them went on to talk about something that even if it had been completely in English, Sid would have missed because he was too busy enjoying the look of utter chagrin—Sid thought that was the polite word—on Cliff's face.

And Andrew evidently had no problem reading the expression on Sid's face, because he put his hand on the chef's arm, and asked him (obviously) a question in Italian. Sid had no idea what the question was, but it reduced the chef to a stunned silence, seemingly only capable of nodding his head up and down repeatedly.

Andrew smiled. And began to sing.

Sid knew the aria—it was on his Favorites tag list—so he could tell that Andrew was not holding back in the slightest. Especially at the end, where the ornaments were even more elaborate than the version on Sid's player.

When Andrew finished, the entire restaurant started applauding—with one notable exception; unsurprising, Sid sneered to himself—and the chef had actual tears on his face. He grabbed Andrew, kissed him on both cheeks, and then did the same to Sid, yanked the dome off the platter (revealing some appetizers that made Sid's mouth water), and told them to eat, while he made them a lunch worthy of such a gift. He then practically ran into the kitchen.

Andrew sat down and surveyed the platter. “Doesn't everything look just delicious!” he said—a trifle louder than necessary.

“ _Everything_ ,” Sid said meaningfully, taking his own seat, “does.”

Their eyes met. They laughed. And then they cleared the platter. And if Sid insisted on feeding Andrew something particularly delectable—well, they were engaged, after all.

**********

The door to the men's room opened while Sid was still at the urinal. Mentally awarding himself a point, he finished and zipped up. He turned to go over to the sink, and awarded himself two more. It was, in fact, Cliff—and he was making no attempt to do anything but lean against the other sink.

Nodding pleasantly enough, he started washing his hands.

“You know who I am, don't you?” Cliff said abruptly.

Sid considered how to answer that. He finally decided on, “Should I?” He shook off his hands and walked over to the air dryer. Which was nice and loud, so it effectively prevented any conversation—for the moment.

He stepped back to the mirror and was pleased to see he hadn't gotten anything stuck in his teeth; he was also pleased to see that Cliff was wearing a petulant scowl.

“I'm Cliff Cooke.”

Sid turned and surveyed him, and took his time doing it. This close, he could see a faint web of capillaries in Cliff's face which, taken in concert with the slightly bloodshot eyes, led Sid to believe that Cliff drank too much.

“I know,” he finally said.

Lips tightening, Cliff pushed himself away from the sink and paced—no, _flounced—_ across the room. “I don't even know why I came in here,” he muttered.

“Not for your usual reasons, I hope,” Sid said amiably; “I'm engaged to be married.”

Cliff flushed—unattractively. Sid tallied up two points, plus a bonus one.

“Fuck you.”

“Not on a bet.”

Cliff whirled around towards the door, but Sid was closer. He put his hand on it, holding it closed; this was one time when the Wicked Witch might actually be appropriate.

“Going so soon? I wouldn't hear of it. Since you obviously wanted this meeting, I have something to say to you.”

“What?” Ungraciously. But given what Sid had heard about his mother, he couldn't say he was surprised.

“Andrew told me what happened. When the two of you were in school. How'd that whole girlfriend thing work out for you?”

Cliff's skin was now so red it almost looked mottled, but he didn't say anything. He almost didn't have to; if Sid had been a kinder person, he might have felt sorry for him.

“If you hadn't done what you did,” he said, “then I bet there's a good chance the two of you might still be together. That man out there is one of the most loyal people I've ever met. He doesn't give his heart easily: but when he does, it stays given. Until someone shits all over it—and him.”

“You're a fine one to talk,” Cliff said pettishly. “How many years did you spend in the closet?”

“Too many,” Sid said. “But I'm not in the closet now. When it was important—when I knew that my love for Andrew was more important than anything else—I came out. I wasn't outed, you know; I could have stayed hidden. But I didn't. It was my choice, and I made it freely. Because Andrew is too important. Too important to be a secret. Too important to lie about. Too important to use like a tool to get what I want.

“And yeah: maybe there are some things that are hard about being out. But knowing that I'll have Andrew—that we'll be together for the rest of our lives—makes those things kind of insignificant. And if you hadn't been such a fucking coward—if you hadn't lied to the person you said you loved, if you hadn't lied to your parents, if you hadn't lied to yourself—then maybe I wouldn't have that.

“So I guess the only thing I have to say to you—ever—is thanks.”

Sid walked out of the bathroom without another word. And as he headed back towards Andrew, he gave himself the W.

**********

“I may never eat again,” Andrew groaned. He put his fork down and wiped his mouth.

“More for me then,” Sid said, a trifle indistinctly, pulling the plate closer to him. The chef had called it something that he didn't understand, but Sid didn't need to know its name to know that it was the most delicious chocolate dessert he'd ever had.

When the check came, Sid was almost too replete to put up much of a fight—but he won easily. Too easily. So when they got outside, he asked, “What's with you? That was, like, token resistance.”

Laughing, Andrew said, “I realize that the struggle itself adds something to the victory, Sidney, but I'm feeling too in love with life—and with you—to muster up anything appropriate. Plus, not three hours ago I finally learned how much your salary is; consider this a warning that I may never pay for another meal again.”

Sid made a rude noise. “Yeah, right. It's not in you not to give back, Sasha—and speaking of: you give an absolute shit-ton of money to charity.”

“So do you.”

“I know I do. That's not my point. I for sure don't actually _endow_ anything; I couldn't believe it when your advisor said that. What was it? The Elliot Singleton Memorial Fund? I'm assuming he's a relative.”

“He is. Or was, actually: that's Mom's older brother, the one who was killed in Vietnam.”

Huh. Family was important to Andrew, for sure, but. . . . “What does it do?”

After a moment, Andrew said, “It benefits military veterans who suffer from mental illnesses. PTSD and the like.”

There was something in his voice. . . . “Really? That doesn't sound like something you'd normally be interested in. For that matter, why is it in Chicago?”

“It's a worthy cause. And . . . Chicago seemed logical at the time.”

“I'm sure it is. Worthy, I mean. But . . . wait.” Sid's mind was putting the pieces together. Chicago. Mental illness. “You're shitting me!”

“I assure you I am not.” But Andrew was blushing slightly—and Sid didn't think it was from the wine.

“Let me see if I have this straight. Somebody attacks you with a fucking piece of pipe and you start a charity for him? Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because he obviously needed help. And he wasn't likely to get it from within the system. And because I could afford it. May we talk about something else now?”

Sid eyed him. “Sure. Of course, Sasha. We can talk about anything you want. Once you admit out loud that maybe the most important reason you helped him is because you felt guilty.”

To give him credit, Andrew didn't attempt to deny it. “Sidney, I broke his arm! To say nothing of his ribs!”

“And he cracked your cheekbone! With a pipe! First! I just don't understand why you'd feel guilty!”

Andrew took a deep breath . . . and then let it whoosh out. “I don't really understand it either,” he said quietly. “It's not like I lost my temper and took it out on him. I know I was only defending myself. But still: I did feel guilty. So I did something to try to make myself—and him—feel better. I know I can't help everybody in the world—but I can help a few people.”

Sid stopped, pulled Andrew towards him, and gave him a hug. “I'll admit I'm maybe kind of biased,” he said, “but I honestly think you're the nicest person I've ever met.”

Andrew squeezed him back. “Well, thanks very much, Sidney. It's nice that you think so—although I don't know how you actually manage to reconcile that belief with the very real evidence that there are times when I am a complete—and totally vindictive—asshole.”

“Why would I want to reconcile anything, Sasha? It would be a waste of time; I'd much rather just enjoy it.”

Andrew burst out laughing. “In that case: you must have _really_ enjoyed our lunch!”

“Oh, I did,” Sid said sincerely. “And when we get back to your place—and I've finished digesting—I'm going to show you exactly how much.”

“How . . . intriguing.” Completely in charity with one another, they walked for a while in silence. Sid didn't know what Andrew was thinking about, but he was trying to decide when the best time would be to share what had happened in the bathroom. If he had learned anything from Andrew, it was that often, anticipation was _essential_.

 


	17. Chapter 17

“I can't wait to see the rings,” Andrew confided to Sid as they walked down the platform; he'd had some stuff to catch up on before his meetings, so they'd done Amtrak instead of flying.

“You and me both,” Sid smiled. “You know something, Sasha? I've learned something about myself during this whole pre-wedding season: I'm much more traditional than I ever thought I was.”

“That actually doesn't surprise me in the slightest,” Andrew said, after giving it some thought. “What does surprise me is that I share that attitude—to a degree, anyway. Confess it, Sidney: you're looking forward to all of the various events Dad has planned, while I can only say that of approximately 20 percent. It's no wonder you're Dad's fair-haired child these days.”

“I'm ignoring that,” Sid announced, “although: you're getting into the spirit of things, the closer the wedding gets. I can tell.”

“Perhaps,” was all that Andrew would allow at first. But then he admitted, “Oh, I suppose so. Now that everything's more or less settled, anyway. It was the planning, and the constant barrage of questions from Dad, that was driving me buggy.”

“You should have just let him do what he wanted in the first place. Instead, you wrangled and wrangled, and still, he got his way most of the time.”

“That is not true in the slightest. Well, not precisely. He did get his way, but I managed to pare down the plans from the grossly obscene to the merely ostentatious.” He bit his lip. And sighed. “And that's unfair of me. Dad has excellent taste, and there's nothing at all vulgar about any of his plans. But there are so many of them! And he's so stubborn!”

By the time Sid had stopped honking, Andrew's face had lightened in acknowledgment. And in humor.

“Okay, fine. Next topic, please.”

“Well, as long as we're talking about traditions: are you getting me a wedding present?”

“Why? Is there something you want?”

Sid affected censure. “Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's rude to answer a question with a question?”

Andrew asked innocently, “Would my mother do that?”

They both laughed.

“Seriously: why do you ask?”

“I'll tell you. _After_ you answer my question.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Fine. The answer is—and I'm not being difficult—I'm not exactly sure. There was something I was going to get you, but when I told Dad about it, he . . . well, let's just say he tried to talk me out of it.”

Sid tried to work his mind around that basic impossibility—and failed. He shook his head. “Wow. It must have been . . . something. What was it: a new house?”

Andrew's face fell. “Sidney: did he tell you?”

Sid felt the blood drain out of his head. And then flood back when Andrew doubled over laughing.

“You are such an _asshole!_ ” he hissed. He folded his arms and gave Andrew his most Canadian look of disapproval . . . which was pretty much wasted since Andrew had staggered over to the nearest building and was leaning against it, whooping, so Sid gave it up as a lost cause. By the time Andrew had finally recovered, he was chuckling too.  He still managed to inject some frostiness into his tone when he asked, “Are you done making a spectacle of yourself?”

“This is Manhattan, Sidney,” Andrew said, wiping his eyes, “nobody's paying any attention to us.”

“By my count, there are at least four cell phones pointing our way that prove you wrong, Sasha. Come on. And if you can control yourself, how about you answer my question.”

“I'll do my best; I don't know how good that is. Anyway: I suppose if one were being technical, I could say that I got _us_ a wedding present. The honeymoon. To be precise: when I knew that's what it would be—our wedding trip instead of just a vacation, I mean—I . . . upgraded.”

Sid pondered Andrew's word choice for a bit. “Let me ask you this: did you discuss this upgrade with your dad?”

“I did.”

“And did he approve?”

The look Andrew cast back at him could only be called droll. “Believe me when I say, Sidney, that even Dad could find nothing to criticize about the arrangements.”

Huh. “A new house would probably have been cheaper then,” he decided.

“Possibly. But we're only going to have one honeymoon, after all.”

“This is true.”

“Why did you bring this whole topic up?”

“Because I wanted to know. And because even though I got you something—it's just a little thing—I was going to get you something else, but I realized that it would be more for both of us, and that I should probably discuss it with you first. Because even though it's something we definitely need right now, I don't know how long we'd need it for.”

“You intrigue me. What is it?”

“Well . . . I want to get a piano for the house in Canada; I really missed having one when we were there last time. But that would make four, counting the one I gave you plus your two. We're not going to be in Pittsburgh forever, but we don't know where we'll be mostly based after that. Does it make sense to get another one?”

Andrew's brow creased as he thought. “I think it does,” he said eventually. “If you keep up your lessons then you'll need it, even if I'm not there. And it certainly doesn't have to be as grand—if you'll excuse the pun—as the one you got me.” He laughed. “I don't think your money manager could handle another one like that; he looked like a prune when he referred to the first one. What did he call it? Oh, your 'recent and unusual extravagance.'”

Sid made a face. “A good piano is not an extravagance; it's a necessity. But you're probably right; we could maybe scale it down a little. Okay.” He nodded, glad that was settled. Then he noticed. . . . “What? What's that look for?”

“I was just imagining the Sidney Crosby I met two years ago thinking that a piano was a necessity. Did you even know what a piano was back then?”

“Of course I did,” Sid said in the most offended tones he could muster up on short notice. “There was one in a friend's house back home, when I was real little. One of the upright ones. And I even knew how to use it.”

“Oh? Do enlighten me.”

He gestured. “The top was a real convenient place to store our sticks.”

**********

As soon as they walked into the jewelry store, Len got up to greet them. And then he gestured towards a chair—where an elderly man was studying them with frank interest.

“This is my pop. When I told him you two were coming in to get your rings, well, nothing could keep him away.”

“I had to see Alex's grandson all grown up,” the man said, in a surprisingly deep voice. He nodded to Andrew. “You have a look of him. Around the eyes.”

“And the nose,” Andrew laughed, “the shape of it, anyway: the length I get from my father's side.”

“Alex used to call it his beak.”

Laughing again, Andrew introduced himself and Sid. When that was done, Mr. Slifka waved his hands at them.

“Go on: take care of your business.”

“I can't wait to see them,” Sid said honestly.

“I think you'll be pleased,” Len said. “And just so you know: Pop insisted on giving them their final polish. After he inspected them. If they pass muster with him, I bet they will with you.”

“Always with the smart mouth,” his father said, shaking a finger at his son. “Still, I taught him the best I could.”

Len reached under the counter and took out a tray. Sid and Andrew leaned over.

“Oh, they look wonderful!” Andrew said.

“They do,” Sid agreed. “Mine is the bigger one, right?”

“You've got a knuckle on you, that's for sure.” Len handed Sid his ring, then Andrew. Sid hefted it in his palm.

“Wow,” he commented, “it's a lot heavier than you'd think just from looking at it.” He put it on; there was a little resistance at his knuckle, but then it slipped smoothly into place. He opened and closed his fingers a few times. “It feels fantastic!” And it did: the strangeness of wearing a ring had vanished almost instantly. “Try yours, Sasha.”

“I can't believe how comfortable it is,” Andrew said after performing some of the same manual calisthenics Sid had; there was a note of wonder in his tone. “Len, it's just perfect. Thank you so much!”

“It's really great,” Sid agreed, slipping his off again to peer inside. “Look, Sasha: the words look wonderful!”

“They certainly do!” Andrew's eyes met his—and they exchanged a smile.

“I'm glad you like them,” Len said; “you want to wear them home?”

“Uh, no thanks,” Sid said handing his back; “that might be bad luck.”

“Sidney's a firm believer in observing proper protocol,” Andrew said with a straight face.

Len laughed. “Well, here's a couple of boxes then. Now, on to the other things. I have to tell you: I've never done custom-made attendants' gifts before.”

“Well, our parents are going to stand up with us,” Andrew explained. “And it's my father's design, after all.”

“Is it?” Len's father asked interestedly. “I wondered who did it; it's good. Simple, but elegant. I remember when he and your mother got their rings. They had stars in their eyes, those two. Just like Alex and Lana. And you two are no different.” He shook his head, remembering. “Your father asked about ten thousand questions. He and Alex got into this big discussion. Something about crystalline structure, I think. 'Til Lana put her foot down.” His laugh was kind of like a cackle.

“Forgive me for asking,” Andrew said, “but did she actually allow you to call her Lana? The only other person she let do that was my grandfather: and not all that often, to be honest.”

For some reason, that seemed to tickle the old man. “Oh, Lana and I were good friends. I got special privileges.” He cackled again. “You finish up with Lenny, and maybe I'll tell you a story.”

Andrew's eyebrow raised on the “maybe,” and Sid smothered a grin; he could tell that Andrew really wanted to hear about his grandmother. But of course, politeness won out; sometimes, Sid thought Andrew was more Canadian than he was.

Len brought out another tray.

“Oh, wow!”

Sid hadn't even known what to expect, but Len had taken Daniel's “wedding motif” and made jewelry out of it: a pin for Elizabeth, and what he called a charm for Sid's mother.

“Why are there two of those?” he asked.

“Didn't I tell you? After I thought about it, I decided to have one made for Taylor; she's giving the toast, after all. She seems to like necklaces, so we should get her a chain to wear it on. You're sure your mother would prefer to wear it on a bracelet?”

Sid nodded. “I asked Taylor, and she said Mom uses bracelets more than necklaces.” He reached out and touched the money clip. “Dad will like this, for sure.”

“I've never known anyone who carried one of those before,” Andrew commented. “Remember, Sidney, you need to give it to him with some money in it.”

“Why should I remember something I never knew in the first place? Whose rule is that?”

“He's right,” Len interjected. And his father threw in, “That way, you make sure it's never empty. It's bad luck, otherwise.”

“Well, you just said the magic words,” Andrew snickered. “Oh, I really like the belt buckle for Dad.” He picked it up and admired it. “You know, I could actually imagine wearing something like this myself. Len, you've done an absolutely incredible job. Thanks so much. Now, if you have any suggestions about a chain or a bracelet?”

“You go over to that case and take a look, Andrew.” And as soon as Andrew walked away, Len retrieved a small box from under the counter and slipped it to Sid.

Sid wandered to the other side of the room and opened it. And his heart sank: it was the wrong color. He closed the box, and trying to school his face, he turned back around. Only to see Andrew's spine go rigid.

He couldn't help it: he started to laugh.

“Uh, Len? I think you maybe gave me Andrew's box. I ordered him the set in white gold.”

**********

When they'd gotten that all straightened out—and after Len's father had finished yelling at him—and everything was in the right boxes, Andrew said, “Well, let's settle up.” He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He then gave Sid a quelling look.

“Before you say a word, Sidney: I'm sure Len is going to give us a detailed bill. You may pay me back—and I promise that not only will I not make a fuss, I will, in fact, cash the check.”

“Uh, Andrew, I do have credit cards, you know.”

But Andrew shook his head. “I'm sure Len would prefer we pay with a check.”

“I would,” Len said frankly.

Andrew raised an eyebrow and, sighing, Sid nodded.

“Besides,” Andrew added as he took a blank check out of his billfold, “Dad is paying for some of this. To be precise: for two of the dress sets. The ones you and I will be wearing at the wedding.”

“How'd he manage to convince you of that?”

Andrew made a face. “He told me that we couldn't use his design without paying a licensing fee.”

Len's father cackled again. “Alex always said your father was the smartest man he'd ever met.”

“You have no idea,” Andrew said with a sigh. He accepted the bill from Len, looked it over briefly, and then frowned.

“Len: are you sure you included everything? This seems rather low.”

Sid leaned over to take a look—and nearly swallowed his tongue. If that was low, he didn't want to know what high was.

Len waved his hand in dismissal. “I gave you a break on the wedding rings, that's all. Third generation wearing rings from here? That's my prerogative.”

Andrew hesitated—visibly—and then conceded. “Well, it wasn't necessary, but thank you very much.” He bent over to write the check while Sid gave his own thanks.

Andrew folded the bill, put it in his pocket, and then glanced at his watch. “It's perhaps a bit early, but I have a meeting at the Met at two. We'd love it if both of you would join us for lunch.”

Len shrugged. “Fine by me. What about you, Pop?”

Before his father could reply, Andrew fixed his eyes on the older man. “I do hope you feel up to it. I want very much to hear your stories about my grandparents. Neither of them ever talked very much about their experiences during the war.”

Len's father looked from Andrew to Sid and back. Then he nodded. “I'd like that.”

“Wonderful.”

**********

When everybody was settled in the restaurant and had ordered drinks, Mr. Slifka leaned over and patted Andrew on the hand.

“It does me good to see you again. Alex's grandson.”

“Again?” Andrew looked very surprised. “We've met before?”

“Two or three times. Maybe four.”

Andrew looked positively mortified. “I'm so sorry; I truly don't remember.”

“Eh, I wouldn't expect you to. A couple of times, you were a baby. And my Star—my wife's name was Estelle, but I always called her Star—she and I came up to your grandpa's funeral. Star was gone when Lana died; I came up for that too. Hand to God, I cried like a baby when you sang that hymn. You were so brave. That was the only time we ever spoke—not at the funeral, I mean, but at the visitation the night before. You were standing with your parents, and your mama introduced me to you. But there were so many people there. . . .” he shrugged.

“Still, I must apologize. . . .”

“Don't be foolish,” he scolded; “the whole thing was less than a minute. I said I was sorry, and you said thank you. And then you said you'd miss her, and I said I would too. And then I moved on. You were, what? Sixteen? I was an old man. You didn't have a . . . what's the word? Context, that's it . . . for me. Now, don't you waste any more time worrying about it, you hear? Have some respect for your elders!”

Andrew threw up his hands in defeat, and the old man nodded in satisfaction, making everybody else chuckle. The waitress came back with their drinks, and Sid decided to be impulsive.

“I'd like to propose a toast,” he said, raising his glass. “I never met them, but I wish I had: let's drink to Alex and Svetlana.”

Mr. Slifka nodded approvingly at Sid as he drank. Then his eyes went back to Andrew.

“You must have been what: twelve, when Alex passed?”

“Not quite, but almost.”

“Ah.” He took another sip. “Did Alex know that you liked boys? Or were you too young to know yourself?”

“Pop!” Len hissed. But Andrew laughed.

“Len, it's fine. To be honest: I don't know if _Dedushka_ Alex knew or not. I didn't tell him—well, I couldn't, because I was just making sense of things for sure around then. But according to my parents,” he laughed again, “I was the last one in the family to figure it out. So perhaps he did know.”

“Well, if he did or he didn't: it wouldn't have made any difference to him.” Another sip—deeper, this time, Sid noticed. “Alex and I served together during the war, you know; I was his gunner.”

“Yes; Len mentioned that when we picked out our rings.”

He nodded. “Well, that's how I know it wouldn't have mattered. We saw that in the war; you know, man love. Alex and me: we both already knew, of course, what with me growing up here, and him going to that fancy prep school. But some of the boys: they'd never been off the farm.” He cackled then, suddenly. “I mind how Alex once said to me, 'How the hell can they have grown up around animals and not known?' He had a word for it: Latin, I don't remember what it was anymore. But it don't matter. It didn't matter to Alex that I was a Jew—and that did matter to a lot of them—and the man love didn't matter to him either.

“During the war: for some, it was hero worship. Some did it for comfort. Some did it for convenience.” He snorted. “Which is a polite way of saying they had the horns on. And some . . . a few, maybe more . . . did it for love.”

He picked up his glass and then put it down again. “Alex and me . . . well . . . we were two who ended up doing it for love.”

Sid was so shocked he couldn't even look over at Andrew.

Mr. Slifka studied his drink for a minute before resuming. “We'd gotten close, before. In Savannah, I mean, during our training. Any good fighting team tended to drift together—spend off duty time with each other, that kind of thing—but it went further with us. And then when we were stationed in England, we got even closer.” He snorted. “It wasn't a natural fit, given the Brits' attitude towards Jews—not to mention the whole class thing. Alex was . . . I think the word was posh. Even though he was,” he made air quotes, “'only a Yank,' a lot of the officers tried to single him out. But Alex kinda held them at arms' length, and he spent much more of his time with me. He got enough of that back in Boston, he said. Plus, he said I was restful. Which might've meant that I liked to listen to him talk. He was so smart, he could talk about anything. But he managed to get me talking too—which was a lot harder to do then than it is now.

“After we were shot down in France, though, it . . . changed. I got hurt, a little, in the crash. And he carried me—had to have been at least a mile, maybe a coupla miles. When I woke up, it was to Alex cussing me out—for all that he was brought up so swanky, he had a filthy mouth on him! I used to tell him he shoulda been a sailor—and he was telling me, over and over, so fierce like, that I couldn't die. So I opened my mouth to tell him I didn't have much say in the matter—and when he saw I was awake, he started crying. And then he kissed me. And . . . I kissed him back.”

He gave the ice cubes in his glass a stir and then took another sip. Sid managed to steal a look at the others; Len's mouth was hanging open, and Andrew . . . Sid actually didn't know any words to describe the look on Andrew's face. Whatever he was feeling, though, was . . . intense.

“I don't think it came to either of us natural-like. I mean, I'd never done anything like that, ever, and Alex? All he'd ever done was,” a quick gesture, “you know, a coupla times at school. But . . . then and there, you know? Between us? It felt . . . right.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “So there we were. We stayed hidden as much as we could—there were German patrols every so often, and we had no idea who we could trust. We grubbed for food—we never would've survived if Alex hadn't been so smart; he knew how to recognize what we could eat, although I couldn't stomach a turnip for at least ten years after we got home—and traveled at night, mostly. And during the days, we slept. And we . . . you know. And we talked. Always talking. Both of us. Told each other stories. He told me about his family, and about his horse, and the cat that lived in the stables.” He snorted. “The cat came out a lot better than his family. I told him about my family, and about Star. I mind how he asked me, once, if I felt guilty. And I told him no. 'Cause my Star . . . well, she belonged to another world. The world that was normal, not the war world. We were in a different world, then. Separate, kinda. Just us. And he smiled at me and recited me a poem—I couldn't tell you the title any more, but the beginning was something about world and time; Star, she knew it right off and she laughed when I told her—and then we made out for a while. And when I woke up, he was running his fingers through my hair, and in a real quiet voice he was quoting me some more poetry—in Latin this time.

“And then the weather took a turn for the worse. One day, it was raining so hard, we took a chance and hid in some ramshackle old barn—half rotting, it was. And, well, we were getting into it again when a soldier walked in on us. The look on his face . . . you didn't need to speak German to know he thought we were abominations. And he raised his gun—I thought for sure we were dead—when this little slip of a girl came out of nowhere; turns out, she'd been hiding in a little hole under where the roof had collapsed. She had a board in her hand, and she batted the arm holding the gun. He dropped it, turned around real fast . . . and then she kicked him right in the stones. That gave me and Alex the chance to take him down.” Another swallow; his eyes were unfocused, staring off into space.

After a minute or so, he shook himself. “So once we were sure he was out, we had a chance to catch our breath—I remember Alex and me pulled our pants up while she went through the soldier's pockets—Alex started thanking her. And she looked up at him . . . and she froze. They stared at each other. And then she said something back. They was both speaking French—I only knew a few words, most of them cusses—but I knew what the look on both their faces meant. Later on, Alex taught me the French word for it. _Bouleversé_. Turned upside-down.” Shaking his head, he tipped back his glass. “You mind if I get another?”

“Of course not.” Andrew signaled to the server.

“Anyhow: Lana was—had been, I guess—a maid. She worked for a Russian dancer, who was very friendly with the Nazis. Turns out she was also very friendly with the Resistance. And when she was caught out—which she had been, at some weekend retreat in the countryside—Lana escaped. She knew some of what the dancer had been up to—I mean, what maid don't know everything that's going on?—so she was trying to make her way to some contact she knew about. But she'd gotten lost!” His laugh this time was more of a wheeze than a cackle. “She was one of the most capable women I've ever met in my whole life—prob'ly the most capable—but she had no sense of direction. She hated the way Boston was laid out—hated it!—and even in Manhattan, she'd sometimes have to walk a block to the next street and check the numbers, to see if she was going uptown or down!”

“So what happened after that?” Sid was really curious.

“Well . . . oh, thank you, miss,” and he took a grateful swallow, “the first thing we did was get rid of the Boche. And then we hid until nighttime. And Alex and Lana talked, and Alex translated for me, and we made plans. Going to find her contact was as good a plan as any.” He shrugged. “Not like we had a lot of options. And Alex started teaching her English, so me and her, we could talk. She already knew a little—smart as a whip, that one. And when it was dark, we set out.

“After a while, we took a break. And Alex pulled me aside. And he tried to apologize! I told him not to be a _schmendrik_. 'I have my Star,' I said to him, 'and it looks like you found yours. What, that means we can't still love each other?' And he just stood there, like he didn't know what to say—which I've got to tell you, wasn't like Alex at all. Finally, he started talking. 'She's not a star; her light is like the moon's. But you're absolutely right, Russ; the moon and the stars don't cancel out the sun.' And then he kissed me. And said, 'That wasn't a goodbye kiss. That was a 'you'll have a place in my heart for the rest of my life' kiss.' And I said, 'Likewise.'”

He closed his eyes for a second of two before resuming. “It took us about a week to make it to Lana's contact, and by the time we got there Lana and I was fast friends. Prob'ly more than friends, to tell the truth: Alex loved her from the moment he laid eyes on her, and I . . . well, I couldn't help loving her for that.” Shrugging, he admitted, a little bashfully, “It probably didn't hurt that when it was time to sleep after that first night on the road, she kicked me until I rolled over and curled up on Alex's other side.”

He looked down for a few seconds. “You know something? What I said before? About how Star was in the real world and Alex and me wasn't? When Lana and us was together in France, it was like we wasn't in the world at all. There was no rules but our own. If Alex wanted to give me a kiss, he did. Lana didn't care; she understood. She even . . .” his voice trailed off and Sid was sure he was blushing, “well, let's just say that I think if I had wanted to, I could have . . . been with them.” He shook his head. “But I didn't want to. That felt . . . wrong to me. I couldn't do that to Star.

“Anyways: we found the Resistance, and they got us back to England. And when we got there . . . well, we were in the war world again.”

**********

Their food came, and by unspoken agreement, they made general conversation for a while; Sid was impressed by Andrew's restraint—until he realized that of course he'd be sensitive to Russ's (actually, Sid thought that was the first time he'd heard his first name) feelings.

Len's restraint was less pronounced. Or maybe, Sid reflected, that was the wrong way to put it, since it was plain to everybody that he was obviously restraining himself. Until he lost the battle and said, “Pop. I mean, that's an incredible story. But . . . Ma knew?”

His father bristled. “Of course she did! What, you think I'd marry her without telling her? I told her everything! Besides: what kind of man would I be if I kept that kind of a secret?”

“Wasn't she mad?”

“Pfft,” Russ said. “She would've been a lot madder if I hadn't told her. You're married; how can you not know this?”

Len refused to be distracted. “But what did Ma say? How'd you tell her?”

“I told her what happened. Everything. And when I was finished, she looked at me: for a minute, maybe two. And then she hugged me. Told me she was so happy I hadn't been alone. That I'd managed to find a little joy in all the ugliness of the war. And that once I'd gotten used to being home, we'd talk about it some more. When we did?” He got a gleam in his eye. “She wanted _all_ the details. I think we made your sister that night!”

Andrew and Sid started laughing; even Len joined in, although he did say, “I'm finding all of this hard to believe.”

“What” his father retorted, “you think your generation invented sex? Or tolerance? Or understanding? We're Jews, Leonard; read some history. You don't understand what it was like. A world war. The second one in a generation, or thereabouts. The pain, the atrocities: it was unimaginable. Even people who lived it, who lived through it, couldn't comprehend it. In the face of all that: who would begrudge some love? Not me, and not your mother. Although,” and he got that gleam again, “she did say she would've had a much harder time understanding it if I had done anything with Lana. And you know,” he turned to Andrew, “later on, when she told Lana the same thing, Lana just shook her head. 'He would never,' she says; 'it isn't in him to do a hurt like that. Not to you. You are his heart.' Then she laughed, real low, like—kind of wicked—and she says, “This is why we let him and Alex be boys together, while we go buy hats, yes?'”

“I can just hear her say that!” Andrew's face was bright with amusement.

Trying to hide his astonishment—and hoping he was doing a better job of it than Len—Sid commented, “Sounds like the four of you were, uh, pretty friendly.” He honestly thought that was the most unbelievable thing Russ had said yet.

“Oh, we were, we were. When things blew up with Alex's family over Lana—which happened the minute he got back to Boston—Alex sent me a wire, that they were coming to New York. I think,” he said reflectively, “Star wasn't sure at first. About meeting them, I mean. Knowing about Alex was one thing, you know? But then Alex showed up by himself, and he was so mad at his family, and so upset at how they'd treated Lana—reading between the lines, he'd kept it bottled up so as not to make Lana feel worse—that Star, she just went with her heart, and she gave him a good talking to about how could he leave his wife downstairs in a taxi cab all alone, and for him to go fetch her right that minute. And Alex, he was so grateful, he gave her this big hug and then ran out the door. And I mind as how I tried to thank Star, but she shushed me. And then she said, 'I tell you true, Russell: it wasn't until he threw himself at you, and held onto you, all the while talking about how foul his family was treating the woman he loved, and I watched you try to comfort him, that my mind finally made sense of what maybe the rest of me already knew: there's always room for love.'

“And . . . that's pretty much the whole story. They stayed with us for a spell; nothing would do for Alex but to marry Lana again in America instead of in England, so Star and me, we stood up with them. And then he went back to Boston to battle his family for his money, with a lawyer—Star's first cousin Bernard—in tow. And between the two of them, they got every last penny, and probably more besides. Then Lana went back, and Alex started his business, and I had mine, and we both started our families. And we were friends, all four of us, for the rest of our lives. It didn't matter that we didn't see each other all that often; when we did, it was like no time had passed. And we wrote letters, Alex and me; his was always a lot longer.”

He paused. And then he sighed. “I'm the last of us. And I'll be gone soon myself. I never thought I'd ever tell anybody else about it. But,” nodding at Sid and Andrew, “seeing the two of you, so in love, I . . . just had to open up about it. And I'm glad I did. 'Cause, isn't there some kind of saying: nothing ever dies, as long as some one remembers it?”

Russ stopped talking then; all of a sudden, he looked . . . self-conscious. “You shouldn't have let me go on so long about this.”

“As you said to my grandfather, 'don't be a _schmendrik._ ” As usual, Andrew sounded exactly the right note, because Russ cackled.

“Listen to you! Do you even know what that means?”

Laughing, Andrew admitted, “Perhaps not precisely; I made an educated guess from the context. You know, _Dedushka_ Alex often used Yiddish words, particularly in his last years; sometimes I wondered where he learned them. Was it from you?”

Russ nodded vigorously. And grinned, “Alex always was looking for what he called 'pithy sayings.'”

Sid had to laugh. “That's something his grandson inherited from him, I guess.” He turned. “Andrew. . . .”

And Andrew nodded. “Of course; I was thinking the same thing. Russ: please don't feel in any way obligated, but we would love it if you felt up to coming to our wedding. Even though _Dedushka_ Alex and _Babushka_ Svetlana can't be there, if you are, then you could represent them. Bear witness for them, if you like. I feel certain they would approve.”

Russ looked . . . floored. And a little bit pleased. And maybe, Sid thought, something else. Not eager, exactly, but . . . hopeful? But he started, “I couldn't. . . .”

“Why not?” Sid asked him.

“Believe me, it's no trouble,” Andrew said firmly. “And we'll make all the arrangements. For you and any of your family that wants to accompany you. Do please consider it; now that I've heard your story, I want very much for my grandparents' oldest and dearest friend to be there when their only grandchild marries the love of his life.”

**********

Andrew was quiet, wrapped up in his thoughts as they walked towards Lincoln Center. Sid was too, but Andrew's absorption seemed . . . particularly intense. Even for him. So after ten blocks or so, Sid nudged him.

“A penny for them.”

A quick grin. “Save your money—oh wait, you don't have to; I paid for lunch.”

Rolling his eyes, Sid said, “Believe me, Sasha, I knew better than to even try, today.”

“You're such a clever man. But to answer your implicit question: obviously, I've been thinking about Russ's story. You know, listening to him speak . . . it did spark a faint memory—you know how I am with voices—but I can't honestly say I remember ever meeting him. But . . . what he said about the letters. I remember _Dedushka_ Alex writing letters. After dinner sometimes, he'd pour himself a drink—rye and water: a highball, he used to call it—and he'd go to his study and take out his fountain pen. He used a ball point for most things, but never for these letters; I remember being fascinated when he'd clean the nib with a piece of silk. It had to be silk, he told me once; otherwise, the threads would snag. I wonder if those were the letters to Russ. And I wonder what they said. And I also wonder whatever happened to Russ's letters; given that story, I'm sure _Dedushka_ Alex would have saved them.”

“It was quite a story,” Sid said, after a moment. “A nice story, I mean. I . . . well, two things struck me. One: did you notice the way he said they took care of the soldier? It was real casual, but . . . I'm pretty sure they killed him.”

“I did notice that. And I think you're right.” Andrew shivered a little. “I'm very thankful I've never had to live through anything like that. I've heard people say things like, 'It was war time,” and I thought I knew what they meant, but today proved me wrong. What was the other thing?”

Sid thought about how to explain it. “I guess . . . I didn't get the impression that Russ was gay, and just lived his whole life in the closet. It seemed to me—and of course, I could be wrong—that he loved his wife and he loved your grandfather. But even if that technically makes him bi, I . . . well, I'm having a hard time thinking of him that way. In kind of the same but opposite way that I have a hard time thinking that Geno's straight. I mean, Nealer's bi. And your dad is too. And we won't even talk about your other grandfather. I don't really know where I'm going with all of this. Except to say that Russ seemed to be . . . in a different place on the spectrum, I guess.”

Andrew thought about that for a minute. “I suppose,” he said finally, “that we could say he was functionally bisexual. If we felt as if we needed to label him. There's some term for people who are attracted to individual people, rather than a particular gender—or genders, I suppose; I can't recall what it is right now. It's funny that you bring it up, though; what you just said makes me wonder about genetics.”

Sid had bet himself they'd get there eventually; “Anything in particular?”

“Well, yes. You already pointed to it. However we want to define it, both of my grandfathers are, or were, bisexual. My father is bisexual. Why aren't _I_ bisexual?”

“I don't think I know the answer to that question, Sasha,” Sid said after a moment, “but let me just say that I'm kind of glad you're not. I mean, I don't think I could take that kind of competition!”

**********

Sid looked up and smiled as Andrew plopped himself down at his table.

“You're done early.”

“I know. It's almost unprecedented.” He glanced at his watch. “We could easily make it back to Boston tonight. Shall we, or get a hotel room?”

“I'd rather go back,” Sid decided. “And stay at your place.”

“That works for me.”

Sid left some money on the table and followed Andrew out of the coffee shop.

“Before I forget,” Andrew said as they started walking—and his dry tone indicated that the chances of that ever happening were extremely unlikely—“we've received an invitation.”

“To what?”

“The Met's opening night gala in September.”

“Really? Both of us?”

“Very much both of us.” If his tone had been dry before, now it was positively arid.

Sid resisted the impulse to laugh. And the stronger one to roll his eyes. “Is that something we want to do?”

“I don't know.” Then Andrew's face changed and he grinned. “I said it depended on your schedule. Which of course it does. And then I dropped some rather unsubtle hints about how long it had been since I'd sung an opening night there.” He laughed outright. “We'll see if anything comes of it.”

Sid bumped shoulders with him. “If they're smart, something will. How'd your meetings go?”

“They were fine. Well, the first one was fine; the second one was boring. I occupied myself with thinking some more about Russ's story. Sidney, do you know anything about Jewish customs?”

“Uh, not really.”

“I don't either. But I'm sure I read somewhere that it's a tradition—or something—that you honor somebody by naming your child after her or him. But the child's name only has to begin with the same letter.” He shook his head. “I'm sure I've got it wrong, or else I'm being terribly reductive, but . . . if that's true, then all three of Alex and Svetlana's children? They're all named after Russ and his wife: their initials are all the same: E, R, S. Estelle and Russell. And Uncle Elliot's second name actually _was_ Russell.” He shook his head. “I can't believe that the initials are a coincidence. And I don't know why, but . . . somehow, it makes the whole story so much more touching.”

“It does, kind of,” Sid said after a while. “And at the risk of bringing something up prematurely: I want to add another item to the list of things we need to think about.”

“All right. What is it?”

“What we're going to name our own children.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it may be necessary for readers to dial their "willing suspension of disbelief" up to about twelve.
> 
> OR:
> 
> What happens when the author reads three words in a Wikipedia article and runs with it.

The minute they got inside Sid's house, Andrew started lifting up the sofa cushions and tilting pictures away from the walls.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Checking for listening devices. In case any immigration officials are investigating us due to our upcoming nuptials. Because I don't want them to hear what I'm about to say.”

This ought to be choice, Sid thought with a mental grin. “And what is that, Sasha?”

“Every single person in Canada is insane. Seriously. Certifiably insane. I thought it was bad in Saskatchewan, but here? Good God, Sidney: I know you're a truly outstanding hockey player, but _you are still human!_ Does the general public not recognize that little fact? And I find myself almost unable to imagine what it's going to be like when they deliver the Cup; I'm predicting mass hysteria and fainting in the streets!”

Nonchalantly, Sid shrugged. “Probably. If you add in the ritual bowing.” He managed to keep his face straight long enough to enjoy the expression of appalled horror Andrew threw at him before he exploded.

“Look on the bright side, Sasha,” Sid finally managed; “even your dad couldn't find anything to escalate!”

The look Andrew bestowed upon him could only be called sardonic. “Oh Sidney,” he said, shaking his head, “if only I could believe that. And you don't even know. . . .” He cut himself off.

Sid rolled his eyes. “Duh. I know your Dad has been planning something. Besides the big to-do for all of my family and friends, I mean.”

“Family, friends, local dignitaries, and every person you've met since you were born,” Andrew corrected dryly; “I wouldn't be surprised if he invited the doctor who delivered you.”

“And I also know,” Sid said, deciding not to think about how true that statement probably was, “that you've been planning something yourself.”

“I certainly have,” Andrew said; “I know how much you like it when I have . . . plans.” His voice . . . suggested. Well, more than suggested, actually.

“I do.” Sid yanked Andrew towards him and gave him a thorough—and lingering—kiss. “Do I get to know when these plans begin?”

Andrew pressed his crotch up against Sid's. “Well. As you know, we've not had a lot of time alone lately. So I may have mentioned to Simon that we would greatly appreciate,” he thrust up, “his booking Mom and Dad on a later flight. And also,” another, more forceful nudge, “I told Taylor that she would have our undying gratitude if,” his fingers snaked between them, and he unzipped Sid's fly, “she let everyone believe that we were arriving with them. So I would have to say,” he licked the side of Sid's neck and started tonguing his ear, “that the only thing I know for certain,” he extracted Sid's dick and started rubbing the head, “is when things will end. So it's up to you,” he bit Sid's earlobe, “to tell _me_ when you wish things to begin.”

“If you don't stop that right now,” Sid gasped, arching his back, “things will end in about ten seconds. And I don't want that, because,” he shifted suddenly, spun Andrew around against the side of the couch and dropped to his knees, “you're not the only one who's been making plans.” He couldn't get Andrew's pants down fast enough, and then, rather than diving in the way he'd intended, he found it within himself to start licking. Delicately. Or lapping, maybe.

“You taste . . . delicious,” he said, before reapplying his tongue to Andrew's slit. When he finally let the whole head into his mouth, Andrew's groan set his entire body on fire, but when Andrew started to thrust, he still managed to push him back. “Oh no, Sasha,” the tip of his tongue traced Andrew's frenulum, “not yet. We're going to take our time.”

“We are,” Andrew rasped, “next round.” He reached down and with a grunt, he lifted Sid up off the floor and deposited him on the couch. He had a glint in his eyes. “I'll give you five seconds; if you're still wearing those pants, I will rip them off you.”

Sid was used to working against the clock. And this was one face-off he was happy to lose.

**********

The first words out of Taylor's mouth were, “You two used your time wisely I see.”

Sid ignored her.

“It can't possibly be that late,” Andrew groaned. “Where did I leave my watch?”

“I have no idea,” Sid told him. “You had it on for round one, so it's probably either on the stairs or in the bedroom. I know you weren't wearing it in the shower.”

Taylor looked impressed. Deeply impressed. “And the two of you are capable of standing? Wow. Wait: any rug burns? I'll have to subtract points for that.”

“Go away,” Sid told her.

“Nope. Besides: Andrew's parents are on their way over.”

“Here? I thought we were meeting them at Mom and Dad's.”

“Change of plans. There was a little accident on the plane. Something involving a harried mother, a fractious infant, vomit, and Elisabeth's dress. She wants to shower and change first.” She paused, and then said, in as delicate a tone as Sid had ever heard from her, “To quote Daniel, she's feeling a bit testy.”

“Which one did she kill first?” Sid asked, only half-joking.

Taylor just shook her head. So did Andrew, but in an extremely pitying fashion.

“Sidney, why would you even need to ask that question? Obviously, she didn't kill anyone: that's why she's in a bad mood.” In a voice that predicted doom incarnate, he added, “The last time Dad said Mom was testy, he sent every single employee at SCE home early.”

Sid and Taylor exchanged glances.

But Andrew wasn't finished. “On the other hand, the executive conference room really needed new furniture, so it all worked out for the best.”

After a moment or two of silence, Sid said carefully, “Andrew, I don't think I ever thought to ask: who did you inherit your temper from?”

Andrew didn't give a direct answer. Instead, he started singing. Something that could only be called a dirge. Or a funeral march. In Russian.

When he was finished, Taylor said brightly, “Well. We should record it. For posterity. Or . . . they're practically your relatives already, Squid; maybe hockeyfights.com would post it.”

“Maybe,” Sid considered. “They'd have to slap a special warning on it, though.”

**********

Andrew viewed the headline with some disfavor: 

> COLE HARBOUR EXPLODES WITH CUP, CROSBY PRIDE

“While I firmly believe that you do, in fact, get far too much publicity, I fail to realize why an inanimate object gets top billing. Also: I do wish they'd specified which cup they meant.”

“There's only one capital C Cup in this context, Andrew.”

“That's not exactly germane to this conversation, Sidney. First of all, it's a headline, and it's all capital letters. Hence, the confusion. They could have been referring to your lucky cup. And, frankly, using the verb 'explode' anywhere near that foul object makes me nervous. I keep expecting it to hatch and take over the entire planet.”

“Are you ever going to stop with all the snide comments about my lucky cup?”

“Never. Not as long as it's extant, anyway. Although . . . all right, Sidney: I'll make a deal with you. I vow I'll stop treating that object with the derision it deserves on the same day you stop all of the comments about my predilection for an eminently healthful whole grain—and just so there's no confusion, I am, of course, referring to brown rice.”

“No deal. Anyway: the Cup should be here soon. Are you ready?”

“As ready as I'll ever be.” Andrew tossed the newspaper aside. “May I be serious for a moment?”

“You can try.”

Andrew cuffed him lightly. And then pulled him in for a lengthy kiss.

“Umm. That's nice. But we can't get too serious: the Cup doesn't like to be kept waiting.”

“Stop anthropomorphizing that thing, Sidney. Seriously: it gives me the creeps. Tommy did the same thing; I kept expecting it to levitate and start roaming the house looking for likely targets—remember, like M-5 did in that Star Trek episode?”

Sid had to laugh.

“Anyway,” Andrew leaned closer and nuzzled Sid, “I just wanted to tell you that, while Cole Harbour does, in fact, seem over-filled to the point of bursting, I am here to tell you that it simply can't be as full of pride for you as I am.”

Sid squeezed him. “Thank you, sweetheart. And thank you for agreeing to be in the parade with me. And thank you in advance for not arguing with me when I tell you that I couldn't have done it without you.” He paused, thought of Tolliver, and then added, “Okay. Maybe I could have. Maybe. But I wouldn't have wanted to.”

Andrew gave Sid his special smile, but before he could say anything, there was a roar from outside, followed by cheers and sustained applause.

“It would appear,” Andrew said, his lips twitching, “that the Cup has arrived. And that it has something in common with many opera singers.”

“And that would be?”

“It knows how to make an entrance.”

**********

Usually, Sid hated giving speeches. But he had to admit, if only to himself, that this was one speech he would never get tired of giving: what he privately thought of as the “Visitation of the Cup” speech. Or “Welcome to Cole Harbour, Stanley,” as he'd explained it to Taylor last time, drunk as a lord. And this year in particular, he had a lot to say.

He'd made it through thanking the town officials and everybody in the crowd. He mentioned his teachers and his coaches. Of course, he talked about Mario and the Pens, and the whole organization. And then he talked about his family.

“You all know the story about the old dryer. But you can't know how much I owe to my mom and dad. And you'd better not know how much—or better, _anything—_ I put them through!” There: everybody was applauding _and_ laughing; he _was_ funny and Jon Toews could go fuck himself. “So thank you, Mom and Dad: I love you both. And thank you, Taylor: for being the best sister I could ever have imagined. You always kept me grounded in reality. I love you too—despite the fact that you've always known how to chirp better than I do!”

When the laughter had died down, Sid said, “I'm almost finished, I promise. But . . . you may have heard that I'm getting married next week.” He grinned widely at the _really_ loud cheer. “So, even though it's maybe not 100 percent official yet, I want to thank my mother- and father-in-law, Elisabeth and Daniel Copley, for everything they've done: both for me personally, and for what they've done to support the cause of youth hockey in North America.” This time, he joined in in the applause. Then he added, “I'd like to think they've helped make it possible for some of you out there to be up here, one of these days.

“And last—but certainly not least—I want to thank my fiancé, Andrew. Because he knows the real me—and he loves me anyway.”

**********

Sid finally managed to get a few minutes alone with Andrew by means of grabbing his arm, saying “Excuse me” as politely as he could manage, and dragging him away—not that Andrew seemed less than willing.

“Having a good time, Sasha?” he asked, once they were alone—well, as alone as they could be in a crowd like this.

“I am,” Andrew laughed; his face was flushed—more from the heat than drink, Sid suspected. “It pains me to admit it, but Dad did a wonderful job. And you, _mon oie_?”

“Everything's great,” Sid smiled. Then he yanked Andrew into a hug. “And now everything's better!”

Andrew rubbed his nose against Sid's. “I'm happy to hear that. Was there a particular reason you dragged me off?”

“Yes and no. I wanted to thank you again for the surprise.”

“You already did. And I already told you that you don't have to thank me; you know that I love singing to you.”

“Well, I do know that. But I still want to thank you. And also ask you . . . it wasn't like Bettman's invitation, was it?”

“Absolutely not. The person who called me was so hesitant that I actually didn't understand what she was asking me at first. Besides: they got my phone number from your mother. Or from Taylor; I forget now. No, it was your mother, but it was Taylor's suggestion. Whatever; the situations were entirely different, and I'm very glad you enjoyed it.” He laughed. “If I'd had more time to arrange things, I would have tried to round up a chorus from somewhere; one of these days, I want to sing 'Amis, Amis' to you properly. Live, in all its glory. But I thought you'd enjoy your cavatina just as well.”

“I did. For sure.” Reluctantly, Sid stepped back. “I hope this ends soon; I'm. . . .”

“What? Tired?”

“No. Well, not exactly.” Oh, what the fuck; Sid couldn't wait much longer or he'd explode. “The truth is . . . I have a surprise for you too.”

“You do?”

Sid just nodded. While grinning.

“Well. From the expression on your face, it must be something choice.”

“Oh, it is. You might even say . . . precious. And rare.”

An eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really. I know people who would wait their whole lives for this particular surprise.”

“Well. Consider me officially intrigued.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Did Dad have anything to do with this?”

Sid had to laugh. “Absolutely not. He doesn't even know about it.” He paused. “Actually: maybe I should say that I didn't tell him about it. That doesn't mean he doesn't know; I think he did tap my phone. Or set up a spy cam somewhere. Or hired people to put me under surveillance. Or hacked into a satellite somewhere.”

“How about: all of the above?”

They both snickered.

“Given what you've just told me: how about we make one final round and then steal away? Unless this is something you want to give me in public.”

Sid had considered that . . . for all of two seconds. And then he'd told himself not to be a fucking idiot. “Uh, no. I want it just to be . . . uh, private.”

“Your wish is my command.”

**********

It took forever to get out of there, but even as eager as he was, Sid couldn't begrudge the time; they were the guests of honor, after all, and if Andrew found it necessary to thank each and every one of Sid's relatives, well . . . he had waited through Sid's signing autographs for hours earlier without a word of complaint—and had even gotten a few requests for his own, which had amused him no end. Besides, Sid got to take his time thanking both his parents and Andrew's.

“This was just fantastic,” he told them. “Seriously, I couldn't have wished for a better party.”

They all looked pleased, and said so, although Elisabeth did add, with one of her more sly expressions, “While I do appreciate the thanks, my dear, I assure you that they're not necessary. All I did was show up.”

“You're being too modest,” Sid's dad said to her, “I'd bet a fair amount that we have you to thank for the fact that the entire population of Nova Scotia isn't here tonight.”

Sid's mother tried to hide her laugh even as she applied her elbow to his side, but Daniel was not at all fazed.

“In all honesty: I thought that anything truly elaborate might detract from the Cup ceremonies.”

Sid's parents just stared at him, while Elisabeth shook her head in a mixture of fondness and exasperation that Sid found . . . familiar. Extremely familiar.

“Well, Daniel,” Sid said, giving him a quick hug, “now I have to thank you for something else.”

“Really, my boy? For what?”

“If anything bad ever happens to me—for the rest of my life—I now know I can put it in perspective by telling myself, 'it could have been truly elaborate.'”

All four of them laughed—Daniel perhaps most heartily, and Sid sent another mental “fuck you; I'm funny!” in the general direction of Winnipeg.

“Well, if there's nothing else you need us for, I think Sasha and I are going to head out. I have a little surprise for him, and I can't wait any longer.”

After saying good night (and trying somewhat covertly to assess Daniel's expression: was it possible that he didn't know?) Sid looked for Taylor. Who was dressed up again—Sid's mother had wisely not said a word; Daniel had complimented her profusely, and Elisabeth had merely smiled. Smugly.

“Did I tell you yet you look nice?”

“No. And I'll hate you forever.”

“Seriously: you look good, Tay. I mean, I know next to nothing about fashion, but . . . it suits you. The . . . lines, I guess.”

She giggled a little. “That's kind of what I thought. Don't you ever repeat this, but I totally panicked in the store and called Elisabeth. Who was probably in the middle of about a thousand things, but she just told Julia to stall people and made me send her pictures.” She laughed outright as she continued, “She also told me to ask Daniel to upgrade my phone.” She attempted to imitate Elisabeth: “'Taylor, it's much easier to do this with a decent resolution.'”

Sid had to laugh. “Did you?”

“He's been a little busy. Plus, I was holding it in reserve, in case Andrew needed something to distract him. And speaking of . . . aw. That's sweet.”

Sid turned in time to see Andrew finish giving his father a hug. With a big smile on his face. On both their faces, actually.

“Thank God. Maybe it'll last until the wedding.”

“And maybe you'll grow your virginity back.”

Snickering, Sid told her, “I'm pretty sure it doesn't work that way. Anyway: I have a favor to ask.”

“What?”

“Andrew and I are heading home. If there's any way you could keep everybody else away for an hour or two, I'd appreciate it. A lot.”

“Having sex before the wedding? You shock me, Squid.”

“It's not that. Well,” he quickly amended, “not only that. I have a surprise for him. And if things go the way I think they're going to: well, let's just say that the potential exists for a lot of noise.” Of the good variety. He was certain. Well, almost certain; with Andrew, there was always a chance. . . . No. He'd love it. He had to: it was way too late to do anything about it.

“Yeah? Maybe Daniel could pipe it all down here.” And then she doubled over at the look of horror on Sid's face. “Kidding! I was kidding!”

“I wouldn't put it past him.”

Taylor cocked her head. “Neither would I,” she decided. “Anyway: I'll do what I can.” She looked around and analyzed the crowd. “An hour, I can pretty much guarantee. More than that? I have no idea. Use your time wisely, Squid.”

“I will. Thanks, Tay. I love you.” He hugged her and she returned the favor.

“And I love you too. Warts and all.”

**********

Sid followed Andrew up the stairs and into his bedroom. He placed the Cup carefully on the bedside table.

“Must you cart that thing around everywhere?”

“Yes.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “At least make sure its targeting systems have been deactivated. And make sure it knows to stay over there—on your side of the room. Unless you have plans to sterilize it. Thoroughly.” He shuddered. Ostentatiously. “I heard more than a few positively terrifying stories today about what people do with the Cup in private—and from some rather reliable sources, your father among them.”

“Don't believe everything you hear.” Which is the only way Sid had convinced himself to touch it the first time he'd won it. (Not on the ice, of course; then, he'd been so euphoric it hadn't mattered. It was only later, when he'd had a chance to think about it. . . . He'd managed to convince himself the Cup was immune to any possible contamination. Because it was magic. Which had been convenient.) Now, of course, he was . . . desensitized. Mostly.

“As a general rule, I don't. However, a distressingly large number of these anecdotes had the ring of unmistakable authenticity about them. The deleterious effect of germs has been common knowledge for quite some time, you know.”

Sid tried to smother his laugh, and then decided it wasn't worth the effort. “With an attitude like that, I'm surprised you can bring yourself to eat in a restaurant.”

“Sidney. You will immediately disabuse yourself of the notion that my mouth is coming into contact with that . . . vessel, however celebrated it might be.”

“Oh God, Sasha,” Sid managed finally, “you're so you. Anyway: are you ready for your surprise?”

“You see me breathless with anticipation.”

“You're never breathless. And I'm going to take that for a yes. Sit down,” he patted the bed next to him.

Andrew complied. And gave him a kiss. “Yes, my champion, I am ready for you to surprise me.”

Good. “Okay.” He took Andrew's hand in his and gave it a squeeze. “You remember our engagement party.”

“I do.”

“I gave a speech.”

“You did. It was quite lovely.”

“I'm glad you liked it.”

“I did. So did our audience. It so impressed my grandmother that she referred to you by name afterwards.”

In his best imitation of Andrew, Sid said, “That encomium unmans me.'”

“I certainly hope not literally: I have plans.”

“So do I,” Sid said with a leer. “But to continue: during that speech, I said I wished for something. Do you remember?”

He was able to pinpoint the exact moment Andrew did, because his eyes darted to the Cup. “Sidney! You didn't!”

“No, I didn't.” He held up his hand to stem the flow before it could start. “Hear me out, Sasha. I said at the party that I wished your name could be on the Cup. Because it deserved to be there. And both of those things are true. But the first thing is impossible. And even if it was possible: can you imagine the shitstorm that would happen when somebody saw 'Andrew Singleton' or even 'Andrew Copley' on there?”

“I'd rather not.”

“Me either. The thing is, though: I'm not the only one who thinks your name belongs on it.”

Andrew's eyebrows shot up. “You're kidding me.”

“I'm not.”

“Who?”

“A lot of people. Most importantly, Mario. Who talked it over with the entire team. And they took a vote. And everybody—and I do mean everybody—agreed that even though you deserved to be listed, it just wasn't a good idea.”

Andrew relaxed. “Well, I'm incredibly flattered, of course, but I'm also extremely pleased that reason won out. Hockey name notwithstanding, I do not—did not—play for the Pens.”

“No, you didn't play. You're right.” Sid stood up and went over to the Cup. “How much do you know about Cup traditions?”

“Official or unofficial?”

Grinning, Sid said, “Official.”

“Other than the fact that it was originally . . . established, I suppose . . . by Lord Stanley, and that it's awarded to the team that wins the finals: almost nothing.”

“Both of those things are true. But there's a lot of other traditions—some people might call them superstitions.”

“Consider me shocked.”

Sid ignored that. “And one of the most . . . uh, potent superstitions involves touching the Cup.” He picked it up and went back and sat down again.

“I suppose I knew that, too; Tommy went on and on about it—I was afraid to even get near the thing, he was so anxious.”

“There's a reason for that. You see, Sasha: no member of the NHL will ever touch the Cup before his team wins it. It's incredible bad luck, otherwise.”

“But ordinary people touch it all the time; I noticed that.”

“That's true. But the reason why Tommy tried to keep you away from the Cup is because I asked him to.”

“You did? Why?”

“Because of another Cup tradition. And I wanted to be the one who explained it to you.”

“All right.”

Sid turned the Cup. “Look: here's my name.”

“Very nice.”

“And here's Tommy's. And Geno's. Flower's. Everybody on the team.”

“I left my copy of the roster at home, but I'll take your word for it.”

“And here's Mario's name. And Coach's. And the rest of the coaches'. That's the tradition: they engrave the names of the team, the owners, and the coaches.”

“Yes, I got that the first time you said it.”

“And they also list the names of the Club's staff. And there's one name there that I think you should see.”

He pointed. 

> _Aleksandr Danilovich_

“I know it's not your real name,” Sid said apologetically, “but it _is_ you. 'Alexander, son of Daniel.' And you can't tell anybody. But you did work for the Pens during the playoffs. Even besides keeping me from going off the deep end. You helped the trainers. You did, Sasha. And when Mario came up with the idea, everybody voted in favor of it. So: what do you think?”

Andrew lifted his hand and extended his forefinger; it was shaking a little. “I . . . may I touch it now?”

“You may.”

He traced the words. “'Alexander, son of Daniel.' That certainly is me.” He paused. “The whole team voted to do this?”

“They did. We all wanted it.”

Without another word, Andrew turned, pressed his head against Sid's shoulder, and started crying. Only a little, but Sid could tell he was truly moved. He shifted so he could reach around and pat his back.

“Geno suggested we use your real name. Well, not Copley; Geno had no idea what that would mean in Russian—not that I have any idea what it means in English. But there's an actual Russian word for singleton; he wrote it down for us. But . . . well, I thought you'd rather keep it simple. Plus, I guess there'd be a risk that somebody might actually know that word and figure it out.”

“It wouldn't be hard,” Andrew said, swallowing, “I know that word.” He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. “ _Odinochka._ But I suppose rendered as my surname, it would be something like _Odinochkin._ Or _Odinochkoy,_ perhaps.” He blew his nose. “It also means 'loner.' Which seems . . . quite inappropriate in this context. No, I prefer what you chose.” He looked at it again. “I can't . . . quite believe it. I'm truly touched. And the fact that it was not your idea is almost unbelievable. It was so, so thoughtful of Mario. And the guys, of course. Tell me: how big a secret is this? May I tell Mom and Dad?”

Sid hesitated. “You probably could . . . but it would maybe be better if you didn't.”

“All right. But you realize that if they see it, they'll know. Immediately.”

“I do realize that. Which is why I asked Tommy to try and keep you away from it. Since I also realized that _you_ would know the minute you saw it.”

“Well, I'm glad he succeeded. This was an unbelievably lovely surprise, Sidney. Thank you.”

“You don't have to thank me. At all. In fact, if there's any thanking to be done, it goes in the other direction. Which,” he gestured towards the Cup, “is kind of the point.”

Laughing, Andrew reached over and gave the Cup a pat. “You know, I'm feeling much more in charity with our friend here. Now that I'm considered an initiate, I'm quite sure that I won't be targeted.”

“Not by the Cup, anyway,” Sid leered. “Remember: I have plans.”

“Captain Crosby: you may fire when ready.”

**********

Some considerable time later, Sid managed to open one eye as Andrew climbed back into bed.

“Sweet dreams, _mon oie_.”

“You too, Sasha _._ ”

The lights went out, and Sid felt Andrew shift to get comfortable. Then he heard a giggle. He opened his eye again.

“What's so funny?”

“Oh, nothing much. It's just . . . I wonder if the Cup needs to see a doctor.”

“How come?”

“I think it might have circulatory problems. I mean, it's August: it shouldn't be so cold!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so perhaps it could never happen like this. But it's a lovely notion, isn't it?
> 
> And for the record: it was an article on the Stanley Cup. And the three words were "Club staff names."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which . . . well, to be frank, some things defy description. Let's just go with . . . BOOM.

Sid was . . . eager to get the meeting started. Very eager.

“If you don't calm the fuck down right now, I'm going to kill you, Sid.”

Sid sneered. “You and what army?”

Tommy—and most of the other people in the room—pointed to Andrew. Who laughed.

“Gentlemen . . . and goalies: please. Naturally, Sidney is looking forward to his little treat. This is not the time for tempers to rise.”

Taylor laughed harder than anybody else. “You already took care of that, right, Andrew?”

“Did he ever,” Kane told her.

“And we only saw the first act,” Tommy added. He adopted his fake Andrew voice. “'I'd like a Dead Goose on the rocks, please. That's Grey Goose with just a _hint_ of grenadine. To mimic the blood, you know.'”

“It's quite refreshing, actually,” Andrew said with a slow smile. “Not to mention inspiring. But seriously: the time for tempers is long past. There's nothing to do but bow to the inevitable. Isn't that correct, Sidney?”

His tone was so innocent that Sid stared at him suspiciously. “What are you plotting, Andrew?”

Extremely elevated eyebrows. “I?”

“Stop channeling Endora, Sasha. And answer my question.”

“Sidney, I assure you: I am plotting nothing. I am merely sitting here, waiting for the last of our players to arrive.” He looked around the room. “How many more are there?”

Without looking at his list, Tommy said, “Two Pens, one former Pen, three Hawks, a Jacket, a Cap, and a Flyer.”

Sid flinched.

“I do hope Claude hasn't forgotten,” Andrew remarked. Innocently. “Or that he hasn't experienced any unforeseen transportation problems. You did remember to order him a car from the airport, didn't you, Sidney?”

“Was I supposed to do that?”

“Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's rude to answer a question with a question?”

“I can't recall,” Sid said airily.

“Ah. Well, fortunately I am blessed with a good memory. And verified the pick-up myself. It would be beyond rude to strand an invited guest. You may thank me later, Sidney.”

“Much later,” Sid said under his breath; he wasn't the one who'd invited Giroux, after all.

Over in the corner, he saw one of Eli's friends nudge him. “I thought you said they loved each other.”

Eli laughed. “They do!” He leaned closer and said, in a confidential whisper that could be heard in the next room, “This is just foreplay!”

Sid couldn't help but laugh. Although he also couldn't help but scowl at Brad, who high-fived Eli. To quote Andrew's Aunt Connie, that Bruin was getting above his raising.

Fortunately for Sid's mood, Geno was the next one to arrive, followed by Army, Jack, and . . . “Jordy!” Sid gave him a hug. “I didn't think you could make it!”

“I wouldn't miss it,” Jordy said. “Hey, Andrew.”

“It's good to see you again, Jordy.”

“Uh, you've met?” Sid asked, looking from one to the other. Andrew rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Sidney. I know I told you I finally visited Mrs. Staal.”

“I guess you did.”

Sid spent some time catching up, and was in such a good mood he was even able to stand up and greet Claude Giroux with a smile, shaking his hand and thanking him for coming. Which earned him a very approving smile from his fiancé; Sid basked in it, taking great comfort in the fact that he had brought antibiotic wipes with him.

“I think that's everybody,” Tommy told him, after Ovechkin swept in (there was no other way to describe it) and had boomed greetings at all of them.

“Great; thanks, Tommy.” Sid clapped his hands together. “Guys: Get more coffee or whatever and let's get started.” He was practically bouncing on his toes when everybody finally got settled; he manfully ignored the snickers (Tommy and Eli), eye rolls (Andrew and Geno), and chirps (everybody else).

He opened his mouth. . . .

“Excuse me?”

Sid turned to the door . . . and his eyes practically bulged out of his head. There was an . . . apparition . . . standing there.

“Holy shit!” he heard somebody mutter. “Who the hell is _that_?”

“Oh my God, that's Anna Luchenko!” Saad breathed, open awe in his voice.

“Who?” more than a few voices asked.

The vision ignored them, and after dropping a very large carry-on, she . . . advanced . . . into the room. “Of course I am!” she purred. She stopped, and some sort of feathery stole kind of thing slipped down her arms. She struck a pose and graced Saad with a brilliant smile. “And you, of course, must be my most loyal fan!”

Saad gulped—audibly—and opened and closed his mouth a couple of times; Tommy leaned over and said into Sid's ear, “Guess Bran's fan boner is bisexual.”

Sid looked to Andrew for help—and saw him staring, an absolutely stunned look on his face, before he collected himself and stood up.

“Anna?”

“Andryusha!” She pivoted on her impossibly high heels, and as Andrew held his arms out, she moved into them; they embraced, and then she reached up and kissed both of his cheeks.

She was not tall, even in those heels, but her . . . costume (Sid could think of no other way to describe it) made her seem that way. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and was adorned with little jeweled . . . things. Long pendants hung from her ears, and half a dozen narrow bracelets clacked as she patted Andrew's arms. She wore a white dress—it had to be silk—decorated with bright tropical flowers; it wouldn't have looked out of place at a cocktail party, and had to have been designed especially for her, because where it didn't drape her, it . . . hugged . . . her (pretty lush) curves, and displayed. . . .

She had the most impressive tits Sid had ever seen in his entire life. And every man in the room who was even remotely interested in women (and even a couple who weren't) was staring at them.

“But who is she?” Eli's friend asked him.

Andrew opened his mouth, but Saad blurted out, “She's the greatest lyric soprano singing today!”

Anna preened—which caused her tits to rise majestically, straining the nearly inadequate fabric almost to the point of bursting. They really seemed to have a life of their own; Sid found himself wondering what she'd do if they escaped: run after them? Not in those shoes; she couldn't. But judging from the rapt looks she was getting, she'd have no shortage of volunteers willing to round them up for her. Or did she have them on a leash? If her dress slipped even one more inch, he thought for sure they'd all find out; inanely, he wondered if he should ask Daniel to explain torque and tension to him.

“Anna,” Andrew had finally found his voice, “it's lovely to see you, of course. But. . . .”

“You wonder why I am here, yes?”

“Yes,” Sid answered for him.

She swiveled—eliciting at least two whimpers from her audience. Sid seemed to recall being taught that objects in motion tended to remain in motion; maybe anti-gravity was already a thing?

“Ah!” she practically trilled, advancing upon him. “You are the villain who stole our Andryusha's heart!” She pinched his cheek—hard—and then patted it. “You are Zidney, yes?”

“Sidney. Yes.”

“Such a pleasure! Andryusha is of course my favorite tenor; he is the best! As am I!”

Sid restrained himself—with difficulty—from rolling his eyes.

“You will turn around, please.”

“Uh, I will?”

“Yes.” She clapped her hands. “Now, if you please! My mind, it is burning!”

Exchanging a glance with Andrew, who looked as confused as he himself felt, Sid complied. And then yelped—and jumped—when she pawed at his ass.

“Exquisite muscle tone,” she commented. “I approve.” As she sauntered lazily back towards Andrew, Sid levied a quelling glare at certain members of the fucking NHL who could not control themselves. Which was pretty much everybody else present; Taylor, of course, was convulsing.

“Andryusha,” she said in a whisper that could have filled Consol, “you actually . . . inside _that_?”

“Well . . . yes.” Andrew sounded . . . strangled.

The look she gave him could only be called impressed. “Are you hung like a horse? His tunnel of love must lie five miles deep!”

Sid thought Ovechkin was going to cough up a lung. And he wasn't even the worst: only the loudest.

Andrew stood stock still; his face was purple with suppressed emotion, which Sid refused to try and define more precisely. Finally, when the quivers stopped, he said, “Ah, actually . . . well. You flatter me, Anna. Somewhat.”

“Oh, pooh: always so modest, Andryusha!” She wagged a finger—adorned with bright pink nail polish—at him. “Very well: for now, I let it go. But know this: the next time we sing together, I shall picture _you_ , plundering _that!_ It will be,” and she took a deep breath, “ _inspiring!_ ”

Sid cracked open his eyes cautiously; nothing had popped out, so he did it the rest of the way.

“I'm sure Andrew is very glad to see you,” although if he actually was, Sid was going to wonder about his sanity, “but maybe the two of you could catch up later? We have some things to organize here.”

“But of course, of course! Forgive Anna: there is never enough time. Andryusha,” she patted his cheek, “we will have tea later on, and you will tell me _everything_ about your future husband.”

“Perhaps not everything,” Andrew said with a smile.

“Then we will switch to vodka! Anna must know all! But on to business.”

“Of course. Do you need help with your bag? Where are you staying?”

“Why would I need help? Oh, I forget myself: I have not explained.”

“No, you haven't,” Sid said a trifle dourly. “Maybe you could do that later. Somewhere else.”

“Sidney.” A warning tone.

Sid sighed. “Sorry,” he muttered.

An airy wave. “Think nothing of it. Naturally, you are overcome with excitement!”

From somewhere, Sid summoned a small—very small—smile of agreement. Or something.

“After all: how often does one get to meet me?” She shrugged. “It happens often. Now: I explain. Quickly, before the business, it runs away.”

Sid kind of wished he could.

“Andryusha told me of your oh so clever idea: a hockey game before the wedding! So quaint! So original! It will be a diversion of the highest sort; I entertain myself for hours simply thinking about it!”

Well, that was something, anyway: she couldn't be all bad if she liked hockey.

“And then, I ask myself: Anna, what would make such an event even more special? For it must be the most special event, for Andryusha and the little pigeon he will marry. The answer suggested itself immediately!” She paused, invitingly.

“Well, I for one can't wait to hear what it is!” Taylor said brightly.

Anna regarded her levelly. “You do not sing?”

“Not at all.”

A big smile. “So charming! The answer, of course, is me!”

“You?” Sid and Andrew said in unison. Andrew looked shocked; Sid felt real fear.

“Yes! I, Anna herself!” She fanned . . . well, herself. “It has been years since I played hockey; but of course, one never forgets. Ah, the thrill! The excitement!” She looked towards the others. “To skate on the ice is arousal of the highest sort, is it not so?”

“So!” replied the idiot chorus of straight boys in the NHL.

“And it was the work of a moment to refresh my skates. I bring them to show you!” She walked over to her bag and bent over; Eli's other friend, who was closest, said in a reedy whisper, “She's not wearing. . . .”

Three-quarters of her audience instantly jumped or leaned forward, a few (including, of course, Nealer) so fast that they toppled out of their chairs.

Anna straightened up slowly, and turning (dramatically, of course), she said, “Are they not dear?”

What they were, was pink. Bright pink. Very bright pink. Sid considered applying one of his antibiotic wipes to his eyes when he noticed. . . .

There were large A's on each skate. That sparkled. Probably because they were made of rhinestones. Or even diamonds; Sid wouldn't put it past her.

“Andryusha! Tell me how you love them!”

Andrew swallowed. “Anna, believe me when I tell you that I simply don't have the words.”

She laughed, and still brandishing her skates, twirled around; Sid braced himself for wind shear.

“Always so sweet, our Andryusha! Pink is a color very few women should wear, but Anna, of course, is not like most women!”

That was probably the most sensible thing she'd ever said.

“Pink becomes Anna! Now tell me: what colors are the uniforms to be?”

Sid was, for all intents and purposes, struck dumb. With horror. Anna advanced towards him.

“Zidney? Pigeon? You have chosen the uniforms already? If not, it is the work of a moment to summon my seamstress. I always,” she confided to the room at large, “travel with my seamstress. One never knows what occasions will arise, and Anna, of course, must be resplendent in all.”

Never before had Sid had seen his life passing before his eyes. And so rapidly. From some hitherto untapped corner of himself, he summoned the courage to ask, “Why do you need to know that?”

“Because,” and her tone would not have been inappropriate addressing a simpleton, “Anna must have first choice of colors! Not that it matters overmuch, as Anna is ravishing in every color. But still! In this choice, as in all things, Anna must be first!”

Sid was going to find a way to alter his DNA so he was in no way related to the person formerly known as his sister, who appeared close to asphyxiation from choking on her mirth. And as for the traitors who used to wear Pens sweaters, well, he hoped they enjoyed their banishments to any team that had never won a Cup. But first things first.

“Andrew.” He stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Andrew.” Good: he wasn't squeaking any more. “Can I have a word with you?” And without waiting for a response, he grabbed Andrew's arm and yanked him outside the meeting room. He had just enough time to hear Anna coo, “Ah! The impetuosity of young love!” before he slammed the door shut and whirled Andrew around.

“Andrew! What . . . she . . . how . . . is she out of her fucking mind?”

Obviously choosing his words carefully, Andrew said, “Anna is . . . a little extreme. Even by operatic standards. Once a diva, always a diva. You know?”

“I know no such fucking thing! About divas, whatever the fuck they are. But I do know this: there is no way she is playing in this game. I won't have her polluting the ice in those . . . those . . . _pig trotters_ of hers!”

“The skates may be over the top, but I wouldn't call them . . . wait just a minute. Why can't she play? If she wants to. And if she can actually skate, I suppose.”

“Why?” Fuck, he was back to squeaking. “Because . . . it's ridiculous, that's why! Even if she can skate—which I doubt very much—there's no way! She's a rank amateur!”

Andrew's eyebrows gained altitude. “Oh? Well, perhaps she is. And what, may I ask, am I?”

Spluttering, Sid said, “That's completely different and you know it!”

“How is it different? Do please enlighten me, Sidney. Because from my point of view, there's very little difference. Well, except for the fact that she's a woman, and may I remind you, your sister is playing? Anna at least seems to have played hockey—once upon a time, anyway—which is more than I ever have.” He paused. And lowered his voice. And in a scrupulously polite tone, asked, “Or are you suggesting that it's only _your_ friends who get to play in this little event? The one that's,” and he switched to Sid's voice, which was something he hardly ever did, “'just for fun?'”

Sid opened his mouth . . . but before he could say anything, he forced himself to stop and actually tried to think about this from Andrew's point of view first. And then he groaned. “Andrew. . . .”

“Yes, Sidney?”

Sid finally went with the more neutral, “I'm not going to win this, am I?”

“I wasn't aware that it was a competition; consider it an application of basic manners instead. Look, Sidney: Anna is a very good person. She's . . . exuberant, it's true. But she has a very big heart . . .”

Sid couldn't help but snort; Andrew's lips twitched in acknowledgment, but he continued, “and is one of my oldest friends in the business besides. I couldn't have imagined when I mentioned the game to her that she would even want to watch it, let alone take part in it, but I _did_ tell her about it, and now she's here. And I won't be rude to her.”

Sid groaned again. “ _I_ could be rude to her, you know.”

That earned him a Look. As well as a rather pithy, “And really: what difference does it make? So there'll be two opera singers taking part: is that so bad? I'm sure the rest of you will be able to compensate for our ineptitude.”

Oh for fuck's sake. “All right, all right; I don't want to fight with you about this. And I would maybe find it hard to be that rude.” Even to her. Although privately he thought that he could definitely muster up the wherewithal to try. “But: can I ask you to do something for me?”

“You may.”

“Please get her to stop calling me 'pigeon.'”

“Ah. Well, I'll do my best.”

**********

“They return!” Anna pronounced in near-ecstatic tones as they walked through the door; “all is serene?”

“Serenity itself,” Sid replied, smiling for all he was worth; he didn't even grunt when Andrew's elbow made contact. Nor did he react when he saw several bills change hands; he'd make Tommy tell him later who bet against him.

“Anna,” Andrew said (a trifle too apologetically for Sid's taste), “if you don't mind, Sidney would prefer that you don't call him 'pigeon.'”

Throwing up her hands, Anna said, “I know! It is not, perhaps, _le mot juste_! At first sight, Anna is reminded of a partridge—a nice plump partridge, you understand—but then she discerns his look—so grey, so serious, is it not?—and she is reminded of a pigeon. Do you not see, Andryusha?”

“Not . . . exactly,” Andrew admitted. With a wicked half-grin cast in Sid's direction, he added, “To be honest, Anna, the only bird I associate with Sidney is a goose.”

“A goose?” Anna declaimed, heard clearly above the hoots of the former members of the Pens who would not at all enjoy playing the rest of their lives in Antarctica, “No, no, no! Andryusha, it cannot be! A goose?”

Andrew took time from biting his lip to nod.

“But why?” she wailed; “Anna cannot abide geese! Well, their livers are a treat, of course, properly prepared and served to Anna in an appropriate style, but for the rest? A goose is forever littering the ground with its little turds! Everywhere they are underfoot; Anna lost a lovely pair of Chinese red pumps to goose turds once: it was a calamity!” A look of absolute horror crossed her face, and she lowered her voice. Somewhat. “Oh Andryusha! Do not tell me that Zidney suffers from the same . . . incontinence!”

When it became possible to make out individual words, Sid heard Patrick Sharp say conversationally, “You know, I should probably die right now; life isn't ever going to get better than this.”

Sid was considering granting Sharp his wish—through whatever means necessary—when Anna whirled around. The motion had the happy side effect of silencing most of them, and she shook her finger at Sharp.

“ _Net, net, net!_ There may be no talk of dying! We are all here for the most happy event of a wedding for our dear Andryusha and his Zidney; it will bring bad luck of the most unspeakable to discuss such a thing! We will change the subject at once! To business, without delay!” She gestured towards Andrew and Sid. “Our two grooms-to-be will be seated and we will begin.”

Sid opened his mouth to inform her that he preferred to stand, when she walked to the small table in the front—behind which Sid had intended to stand—eased herself onto it, and, once settled, crossed her legs.

More than half of the men facing her crossed theirs too.

Cutting off a noise of . . . something, Andrew practically pushed Sid into the chair next to Tommy, and sat down himself. Tommy leaned over and said into Sid's ear, “You'll be happy to know that the carpet matches the drapes.”

Spasms were very interesting things, Sid reflected, as he attempted to recover from his very first one ever.

Clapping her hands, Anna pronounced, “We begin! Now, who here plays right wing? You will stand, please.”

They obeyed—some more slowly than others; there may have been adjustments that Sid preferred not to dwell on. Anna surveyed the group.

“Very good. Excellent, in fact! Now: left wing, if you please!”

The process was repeated. A slight frown marred her countenance; she tapped one of her fingers against her lips as she thought. Finally, she nodded.

“Very well. Anna has made her decision! You,” she pointed to Panarin, “and you,” this time to Kane, “will be on Anna's line. In terms of coloring, it could not be bettered: the two blond cherubs will complement Anna in a most pleasing fashion.”

Panarin shook his head, confused. “I do not know this word.”

She said something in Russian then; when she finished, he looked, amazingly enough, pleased. “Kaner and me: we are chair rubs,” he announced.

Sid heard a strangled gasp coming from Andrew.

Anna nodded. “It will be a line of the most exquisite artistry.” She then made a moue of displeasure. “There is the matter of your height,” she told Panarin; “you are, perhaps, an inch or two too tall. But all will be well if you do not loom. Anna dislikes looming.” She turned to Kane. “For you, no warning is necessary, which pleases Anna.”

Judging from his wheezes, Sharp had not, in fact, died.

Kane bristled. “I am not short!”

“But of course you are not! You are the perfect height, for you will not tower over Anna and perhaps cause shadows to hide her from the crowd. It is well, no?”

Kane glared at her—and then transferred that glare to Jon, who was fighting back his laughter.

“And as for the rest? I am quite certain that you are very, very tall where it is important. Quite tall,” Anna cooed. “Enormous, in fact. Anna will sing an aria to it. Later. Now. . . .”

Whatever she was about to say was drowned out by the extremely odd—and unfamiliar—sight of the NHL's Captain Serious laughing hysterically. He wasn't the only one, but he was certainly the most . . . unhinged.

“You distract from the business with this unseemly display,” Anna informed Jon severely. “There is little time for frivolity.” She clapped her hands. “Attend me, please. We move on to the matter of the captains.”

“I hope you're going to be one,” the person formerly known as Taylor Crosby said fervently; “I hope that from the bottom of my heart.”

Anna paused, as if to consider the notion, but then shook her head. “No, it may not be. Anna does not conduct; she stars, naturally, but she does not conduct. You must resign yourself to disappointment. It is my thought that of course Andryusha and his Zidney will be the captains.”

“No,” said Andrew and Sid simultaneously.

“Whyever not? It is a happy notion; you two are the grooms-to-be.”

“I want Andrew on my team,” Sid informed her. Directly.

“And I . . . decline . . . to be a captain,” Andrew said, no less definitely.

“Andryusha, explain you this.”

Andrew opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said, “Suffice it to say that it is not a role that suits me, Anna. Would you sing Turandot or Liù?”

Sid had no idea what that meant, but it effectively ended the discussion, for she said only, “Oh pooh, Andryusha. Very well; if you will not, you will not. Anna will conceive of something else. Who are the captains here? Not including Zidney, of course.”

“Why not including Zid-- I mean, me?” Sid demanded.

She looked at him as if he were insane. “If Andryusha is not a captain, then of course you may not be one. It will disarrange the balance, the symmetry. And besides: you will not wish to appear superior to Andryusha. No, it may not be.” She turned away. “The other captains: which are they?”

Jon was the first to be eliminated. “You—no. You might indulge in undignified behavior; it is necessary for captains to provide good examples.”

Kane's hilarity was only slightly more pronounced than that of the other Hawks, although Sharp seemed close to death again.

As Anna considered the other possibilities, Andrew leaned over and murmured to Sid, “If you want to be captain, just say so; I certainly don't mind.”

Sid shook his head. “She maybe has a point. Besides,” he said, donning his wry face, “it's not like anything about this game is going as I expected. The important thing is that we have a good time.”

“Well, I agree, of course, but . . . are you sure you'll have a good time if you're not captain?”

“It'll be fine,” Sid said dismissively. And then he realized. . . . “Uh, Sasha, if . . . I really don't . . . I can't. . . .”

He was interrupted by Anna clapping her hands again. “Then it is decided,” she declared; “One team, the team on which Anna plays, it shall be run by Alex here, because he understands the Russian soul for hockey. And because his name begins with Anna's A. Do the teams have names? And . . . no, it will not serve; there is no time to commission a suitable design for an emblem, and no doubt Anna's seamstress will be occupied with perfecting the fit of Anna's uniform. But to reinforce the affinity, I think . . . yes, of a certainty, Anna will wear the A. And also Andryusha, of course: with Alex as our captain, we shall be the A Team. And before the clamors begin to call us Anna's team, or the Anna's—as melodic as that would be—Anna must say no, for even the greatest composers have sometimes named their operas after a character other than the heroine.”

Panarin piped up, “ _My_ name, it also begins with A.”

“I am sure it does, _mon ange_ who will not loom over Anna. And of a certainty, you must tell me what it is, at some time when I am not occupied with other details.”

“My name begins with B,” Brad told him sarcastically; “did you learn that one too, or was one letter your limit?”

“I do not understand,” Panarin said sadly.

Before things could escalate any further—if that was even possible, since Sid was seeing the end of the world as he knew it getting increasingly closer with every passing second—he cleared his throat and attempted to channel Andrew.

“If I can ask: who is the captain of my team?”

“That fellow there,” Anna pointed. Sid felt all of the blood drain out of his head.

“I was wrong: life can get better. I'm so happy I'm still alive,” Sharp gasped.

“My name begins with C,” Giroux said with a smirk.

**********

“For fuck's sake, Sid, would you please look on the bright side?”

“There is no bright side, Tommy.”

“Yes, there fucking is. I mean, leaving aside the absolute insanity of that freaking czarina . . .”

“Don't call her that!” Sid snapped.

Tommy stared. “What, you're all protective now? Five minutes ago you said . . .”

“Never mind what I said! But don't call her that!”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because it starts with a C!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you're as crazy as she is!”

Sid slumped back onto Tommy's bed. “Crazy begins with a C too,” he said mournfully.

“Well, 'bright side' begins with a B and an S, and I'm getting tired of yours! There _is_ a bright side, and you need to recognize it and stop this wallowing.”

Sid glared at him; Tommy glared right back.

“I liked you better when you were scared of me,” Sid groused resentfully.

“Don't front, Sid: you love me. Now listen: even with the Tsarina—and don't you even open your mouth, that begins with a fucking T!—playing, and with Ace on the other side, the teams are really fucking good. Be honest: _you_ wouldn't have been able to arrange line-ups like that. Ovi and Giroux aren't trying to fuck things up; if anything, they're bending over backwards to cooperate. If you'd been captain, would you have taken second line like Giroux did?”

Sid scowled at him.

“I don't hear anything, Sid. And if you don't answer my question in five seconds, I'm gonna start yelling every fucking word in the dictionary that starts with the fucking letter C! And let me remind you: that includes the word Crosby!”

“All right, fine! You're right,” Sid sulked, “I probably wouldn't have. And I know it's for . . . shit! . . . it's for a good . . . fuck my life, it's going to benefit people! But . . . oh, I don't know, Tommy!” He deflated. “It's not the game I wanted.”

“I know that, Sid; but it's the one you got. And frankly, I'm surprised you got it at all; I was there when you dropped this little bombshell on Andrew, remember.”

“I know, I know.” Sid still felt a little ashamed about that. “Which is why I gave in to that . . . to her. Although how the fuck having somebody who probably can't even stand up straight in skates on the ice is going to make him feel better, I for sure don't know.”

“Look at it from his perspective, Sid.”

Sid made a derisive noise. “What the fuck do you think I've been trying to do?”

“Yeah? Have you ever gone to watch him practice? I'm not talking about that dress rehearsal thing we all went to. Have you ever seen him at work? Working at work, I guess? Maybe you should, one of these days. You of all people should know what it's like to be the best player on a team and still be a team player. At the very least, I bet it'd give you a sense of what, I don't know, opera team dynamics are like.”

After mulling that over for a minute, Sid finally said, “Maybe I should.” He was proud of the fact that his voice didn't sound at all grudging. Well, probably not too much. “That's good advice. As usual. Thanks, Tommy.”

“You don't got to thank me. But you're welcome.”

There was a rapping on the door; Tommy went to open it.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” Andrew said walking in, “but Sidney, your agent just called.”

“He called you?”

“Well, the room; he needed to get in touch with you right away and your phone is, apparently, turned off.”

“I wish Pat hadn't bothered you. What's so urgent?” Then Sid peered at him more closely. “You look . . . pleased. Or satisfied, maybe. What's going on? Did he tell you?“

“He gave me a hint. But I think it would be better if you discovered it for yourself. Check your phone for what he asked me to inform you was an early wedding present.”

Sid turned his phone on (these days, it was safer to be off the grid—if that was even possible where Daniel was concerned), and went to his e-mail. Once he managed to open the attachment, he started reading, and before too long he was smiling broadly.

“What's up? Christmas come early this year?”

“You could say that. Andrew, I used the wrong word. You didn't look satisfied; you looked victorious.”

“Well, it's early days yet, Sidney. But perhaps we achieved what you wanted.”

“Maybe we did. Take a look, Tommy,” Sid shoved his phone over. “It's a press release. From Bettman. It'll hit tomorrow, I guess.”

Tommy started reading. “'Thorough investigation . . . oversight . . . possible suspension . . . zero tolerance . . .' holy fucking shit, guys, you did it!”

“I would say that it's too soon to judge that definitively, Tommy. But I would also say that whether or not anything comes of this, the fact that they had to admit there was a problem is the greater victory.”

Sid snorted a little. “Not that they came right out and admitted that they were at fault.”

“Of course not.”

Tommy finished reading and handed Sid back his phone. “Well, I still say congratulations. And your agent had to be right, Sid: this is your wedding present from the NHL. The timing can't be a coincidence: the _You Can Play_ thing airs tomorrow night. And you're getting married this Saturday. Tell me this ain't a preemptive strike.”

“I bet you're right, Tommy.”

“It's tomorrow night?” Andrew grimaced; “I've been trying to block that fact.”

“You've been hanging around Sid too long.” Then Tommy's voice changed. “You know, I been thinking about that interview a lot. And about what went down during the intermission. Remember what Kaner said? I think he was absolutely right: you _are_ a catalyst. Don't make that face at me, Andrew; I don't mean anything bad. But seriously: here's my take on it—and it ain't that different from Kane's. If you and Sid hadn't met and started dating each other, then Sid would never have brought you to a game, and you and we, we'd never have met. And Sid would probably never have come out to the team, and that means I wouldn't have either. And if he hadn't bought you those tickets for the Hawks games—and tell me that Tazer wasn't eaten up with curiosity about who Sid was doing that for—then you wouldn't have met them. And if you hadn't given your concert, then probably Bran and I would never have hooked up. And if you hadn't been exactly the person you were, then Sid would not have come out in prime time. I guess basically what I'm saying is: the only thing you did was show up. But look what happened!”

Both Sid and Andrew laughed.

“Well, Tommy, I take your point. And as long as no one tries to claim that I ruined the NHL—at least to my face or in my hearing, as I am well aware that numerous disgruntled fans have already posted that very opinion on message boards—not to mention Twitter—then I suppose I will have to accept it. After all,” and he grinned at Sid, “it got me my soul mate.”

Sid hugged him. Then he had a thought.

“And speaking of ruining things: Sasha, did you tell Anna we were soul mates? I mean, the Russian way, like your grandmother said?”

“No, Sidney, I did not. Why?”

“Well, it was just a thought. But maybe if you mentioned it, and told her that in the NHL, soul mates always played on the same team. . . .”

Both Andrew and Tommy started to laugh.

“You don't give up, do you, Sid? Or should I call you Zid?”

Sid gave up. “It was worth a try,” he said with a sigh. “What's going on with her, anyway?”

“She's ensconced in her suite, holding court. You may—or you may not—be pleased to hear that your team has the second practice slot tomorrow, so feel free to sleep in. And before you start: let me assure you that Anna is punctual. Truly, Sidney: she's a professional. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that she dislikes rehearsals starting late as much as I do. Of course,” he added judiciously, “she makes her displeasure known much more . . . explicitly . . . than I do too. In any event: I'm confident practice will start on time. Oh, and by the way: disabuse yourself of any ideas of watching us practice surreptitiously; both Alex and Claude declared their ice times closed to everybody but that team's players.”

“I wouldn't dream of trying to sneak in,” Sid said loftily.

“Yeah? That's only because you haven't actually slept since the rosters were announced.”

Sid scowled at him. “Remind me again why I like you, Standish. And Andrew: stop smirking.”

**********

Sid was glaring impatiently at his watch when the door opened and the other team starting filing out. He exchanged greetings and nods, while trying to gauge their demeanors. It was . . . difficult: the only insults he could make out were directed at other players, not at more eminently suitable targets. Such as Target A, who swept out accompanied by an entourage of everybody on that team who spoke Russian.

Andrew and his erstwhile sister were the last out.

“I thought you said she was punctual,” he complained—after accepting a kiss from the person whose presence he welcomed.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Practice did, in fact, start precisely on time. If it ran late, blame Alex for that. Well, for most of that.”

“What happened?”

The female from the nameless caste spoke up; since he might learn something, Sid deigned to listen.

“Anna asked Ovechkin if she could run a make-up check.”

For the second time in two days, Sid experienced a spasm. “A . . . what?” he finally managed.

“A make-up check,” the female pariah repeated cheerfully.

“Who the _fuck_ wears make-up on the ice?”

Silence.

“Okay, fine, forget I even asked that question,” he muttered.

The unknowable one dared to shake her head at him. “That was dumb, even for you, Squid. 'Who can know the effects of such an antiquated lighting system, encountered here for the first time, and which may not be adjusted properly for the perfection of Anna's complexion?'” The accent was all wrong, but the tone was perfect; half of a snort escaped before Sid could stop it, but he decided to be let it pass. And when Andrew got summoned ( _le mot juste_ , since it was by both Ovechkin and Anna), he decided to be gracious.

“Listen, Taylor,” he got out before he was interrupted.

“Oh, I exist again? What do you want, Squid?”

Sid squirmed. “I'm not asking for any strategy or anything like that. But please, Tay: I can't stand it. How terrible was she?”

Taylor thought it over. Finally, she blew out her breath and said, “It . . . could have been worse, Sid. She knows which is the stick and which is the puck. And she actually can skate. And . . . oh, I shouldn't even admit this but I will: in terms of staying power, she's almost as good as Andrew; I actually think there's something to this whole breath control training. But . . . leaving me out of it, there's three people on this team who aren't in the NHL, and everybody's going to know immediately who those three people are. Eli's buddy isn't as good as Eli is—he's got potential, I will say—and Andrew's . . . well, maybe you could say he's feeling outclassed. And that's as much as I'm gonna say.”

It was more than he had hoped for, and probably more than he deserved.

“Thanks, Tay.”

“You're welcome. So: am I back in the will? I need to know, because if he ends up feeling humiliated tomorrow, Andrew's gonna kill you.”

“It won't come to that,” Sid said confidently—on the outside, at least. “Andrew has risen to every challenge he's ever been given. And I've never seen him not give anything less than his best effort.” When he wasn't depressed, anyway.

Taylor sighed. “Sometimes people's best just isn't enough, Sid. And even you've lost enough games to know that.”

He met her eyes—and acknowledged her point.

“Well, the only thing we can do now is hope for the best,” she said. “But . . . okay. I have one piece of advice for you. Vis-à-vis the love of your life, I mean. He's knows he's not equal to 99 percent of the other players. But if you treat him one whit differently than anybody else on the ice, he will end you.”

“I wouldn't do that!” Sid said, stung. “For fuck's sake, Tay: I respect his abilities enough to have . . . well, kind of forced the issue with this whole game in the first place.”

“That's when it would never have entered your mind that you'd be on different teams. But . . . well, I'm glad to hear you say that. Seriously, Sid: don't hold back tomorrow. If he actually manages to get the puck, don't hesitate to get it back. Make sure you respect _him_ , not just his abilities.” And with that, she started to walk past him, but Sid stopped her; he _had_ to make sure she understood.

“Hey. Tay?”

“What?”

“Do you think I respect you _and_ your abilities?”

She thought for a minute before she nodded.

“Then you don't have to worry about tomorrow. At all. But . . . even though I didn't need it, thanks for the advice.”

“You're welcome. Am I back in the will?”

Sid grinned. “Sure. What are you going to do with all that money?”

“I don't know. Go on a vacation, maybe. After I find myself my own hooker with a heart of gold. But first, I'll make Elisabeth take me shopping: I promise I'll wear a pretty dress to your funeral.”

“If you don't, I'll haunt you.”

They both laughed; Sid caught her up in a quick hug, and then went inside to get ready for practice.

**********

Daniel had, of course, arranged a feast for dinner the night before the game. It was not _quite_ as big a gathering as the wedding reception would be, but it was not limited to the people actually playing in the game. Eli's family was there, as were his friends'—and Sid's, of course—as well as the wives and kids of all the other players.

He managed a few minutes alone with his parents. “How are you holding up?” he asked. His mother just laughed.

“You know, Sid, years ago I read a book about what life was like in the Philippines under the Marcos regime. If you were one of their guests, and happened to say you liked something, it magically appeared the next day. With Daniel, you don't even have to say anything: it's there before you even know you like it!”

Sid grinned at her. “I take it you're having a good time, then.”

“Oh, it's wonderful. Everybody from home is.”

Sid's dad nudged her. “Tell Sid what happened today on the tour.”

She laughed again. “A bunch of us went sightseeing in Boston today. The Freedom Trail, Back Bay, that sort of thing. Copley Square was interesting; I think Andrew's family has many more things named after them than even you do!”

Sid had to laugh.

“And then we all had lunch at the Art Museum.” She took a postcard out of her purse and handed it to him. “Look, Sid.”

So Sid did. It was a portrait—obviously old—of a man holding a silver . . . teapot, he guessed. He flipped it over; the caption said it was Paul Revere, painted by. . . .

“Seriously? John Singleton Copley?”

“I know! I asked about it when we got back, and Miss Ruthie told us, 'He's Andrew's seven-times great-grandfather. Or it might be eight-times; I can never remember. Nobody knows all the details, but he's the main reason why the Singletons and the Copleys don't get along.' Then Daniel laughed and said, 'Which is why our marriage caused such a scandal. In certain circles, of course.'”

They all exchanged a look.

“Did Elisabeth say anything?”

His mom giggled a little. “She just said, 'Perhaps the main reason, darling. But certainly not the only one.'”

Sid laughed again. “What can I tell you? Rich people are weird.”

His father snorted. “Yeah, well: I like Daniel's weirdness a lot better than his family's. Makes you wonder, though: how did Andrew end up so normal?”

Sid's mind grappled with that concept for a minute. And then gave up—and not only because he saw Andrew beckoning to him.

“My dad just asked me how you ended up so normal,” he announced.

“I'd ask the context, but I'm not entirely sure I want to know.” Andrew tugged his arm. “I want to introduce you to a few people.”

“Okay. Who?”

“Some of my friends and colleagues. Apparently, Anna spread the word of tomorrow's . . . event, and took it upon herself to invite them to attend. Dad, of course, was more than pleased to include them this evening.”

Sid parsed that statement in his mind. “You know,” he remarked, “you can say 'fuck you' more delicately than anybody else in the world.”

“And you love me for it, don't you?”

“And so much more.”

Most of the opera people were very nice—which meant that they seemed to be actual human beings instead of whatever alien life-form Anna was—but Sid was thrilled to see Caroline and her girlfriend show up. Since he'd invited them to come early, of course. However, Caroline was not as happy to see him, and she lost no time in dragging him aside to let him know why.

“Why didn't you tell me?” she practically hissed at him.

“Uh, tell you what?”

“Who else was invited?”

Sid assumed she meant the opera people. “Because I don't really know anything about them; I'm not even sure Andrew told me who was invited and who accepted. And, no offense, I didn't think of it. Besides: none of them were supposed to be here tonight anyway. Why is it an issue?”

“Sid,” Caroline was pained, “I was beyond flattered when you asked me. About Saturday, I mean. But I had no idea who else would be there. Do you know what that's going to be like for me? Maybe you should ask one of them instead.”

Sid shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. I don't want anybody else.” He took a deep breath. “If you don't think you can, then just tell me now. And I'll change things. But I want you to do it. You, or nobody.”

She stared at him. Intently. Then she bit her lip. And gave in. “Okay, fine. But don't blame me if I throw up from nerves.”

“You won't,” Sid said bracingly as he patted her arm. “Hey, tell me something. What's a,” he searched his brain, “diva? Is that right?” Involuntarily, his eyes went to the group of players surrounding Anna—all speaking Russian; Caroline's eyes tracked his.

“Literally, it means 'goddess.'” Her lips twitched. “And you're never going to meet anybody who lives that word more than she does.”

“Oh,” Sid said glumly. “Well, crap.”

Caroline laughed.

**********

Drinks flowed, and servers circulated with trays loaded with incredibly delicious appetizers, which were emptied almost as soon as they appeared. (And which were immediately replaced with full ones.) None of those things surprised Sid. What did surprise him was how well the two (pretty diverse) groups of people got along. That Caroline fit right in with the hockey crowd didn't surprise him, of course, and her girlfriend had already met most of the Pens, but the rest of Andrew's work friends seemed quite at ease. And vice versa. (There was, naturally enough, a big difference between opera singers being at ease and hockey players being at ease, but even allowing for that, people seemed to be getting along. For now, anyway: things might change if some of the guys took their teeth out.)

There was another soprano named Anna, who was also Russian, which ordinarily would have confused Sid, but this time, he had no problem keeping them straight. (The two women tended to avoid each other, which made things easier; the Anna who was ruining Sid's life clearly preferred the company of men.) But except for that little rivalry, which Sid could completely understand, all of the opera singers seemed very friendly with each other. And also. . . .

When Andrew first introduced him around, Sid had been too busy trying to keep people straight in his head to pay much attention to anything else (although it was easy for him to tell which of the opera singers Andrew truly considered to be friends, and which ones were merely colleagues), but after a while, he had begun to notice something interesting. And with some adroit maneuvering, he managed to edge to the side of the room to observe for a little bit, to see if he was right. And he was: all of the opera singers seemed genuinely fond of Andrew. Very fond. He was the youngest of all of them, some by a little and some by a lot (Sid had been surprised to find out that Caroline was about five years or so older than Andrew), but there was no sense of patronizing or anything like that; in fact, a few of them even seemed to defer to him a little. And more than a few of them had seemed . . . surprised . . . to see Andrew clearly enjoying himself. There had been one moment, when Andrew's attention had been snagged by Tommy; Sid hadn't been close enough to hear what was said, but judging from the expression on Tommy's face it was choice. Andrew had thrown his head back and roared, and had then replied with something that made Tommy double over; he'd given Andrew a hug and then walked away—and Sid noticed two of the women singers exchanging raised eyebrows (rookie attempts, compared to Andrew's), while the shortest of the male singers openly stared in disbelief. Evidently, Andrew did not often lower his guard while at work; Sid didn't even try not to feel smug.

All of Andrew's colleagues had been very polite to Sid, and all had said very wonderful things about Andrew, which was only to be expected and which Sid really, really liked a lot. But—and it was a big but—Sid definitely got the impression that some of these people did not know what to make of Andrew's choice of a husband, and maybe for the first time, Sid truly understood how Andrew must have felt at that first breakfast when he had announced his profession, only to be met with blank stares. It was different than it had been at the engagement party; Sid finally decided it was like being an exotic animal on display at the zoo. Definitely some kind of mammal, though; there was no way he wanted to be part of any avian species.

Daniel appeared at Sid's elbow, effectively ending his ruminations.

“Are you having a good time, my boy?”

“I am,” Sid said, more or less honestly. “I mean, apart from the whole 'I'm not really comfortable around people I don't know' thing.”

Laughing, Daniel clasped him on the shoulder. “I can relate, Sidney, believe me.”

“Oh, I do; it's one of the things I like the best about you, Daniel. Listen, let me ask you a question.”

“Of course, my boy. Ask away.”

Sid surveyed the gathering. “I'm trying to decide which one of Andrew's work friends is going to be the one to give me the scary speech about not hurting him. I've got it narrowed down to three. Who would you pick?”

“Hmm.” Daniel made his own assessment. “That's a bit of a poser, Sidney. Are there time frames involved here?”

“Well, definitely tonight.”

“Ah. Well, that eliminates the first Anna; I rather think her presence is the scary part.” Daniel had been properly sympathetic to Sid's casual, offhand complaint, which had only lasted half an hour. Or so. Much more sympathetic than anybody else. “All right. I have my choices. Shall we compare, or make a wager?”

“Let's compare; that way, we can start enjoying ourselves earlier.”

It turned out that they had the same three people in mind.

“We are good, Daniel!”

“We are indeed, my boy. Ah, I believe it's almost time for dinner to start. And if I'm not mistaken, our candidates are regrouping. When the time comes, do make sure you stand close to them, Sidney; I would like their intimidation attempts to be captured on the subcutaneous recording device I've planted in your neck, and I've been having trouble with background noise interfering.” He tsked. “This is what happens when you rely upon other people's hardware instead of taking the trouble to create your own.”

“Uh . . . you're kidding, aren't you? Daniel?”

With a laugh, Daniel slipped away; Sid resisted—with difficulty—the impulse to rub his neck. He was pretty sure Daniel was joking, but if he'd learned one thing in the past two years, it was never to underestimate _anything_ where Andrew or his parents were concerned.

**********

Dinner was pretty informal (mostly served buffet style); the food was delicious—and plentiful. And also pretty evenly divided between the obviously healthful and the equally obvious normal (the words were Sid's; Andrew used other epithets). Still, Sid was amused to note that even Andrew ate at least twice as many carbs as usual—although of course he eschewed the white ones.

They had planned on a relatively early night, but the operative word there was relatively, since the game wasn't until the next afternoon, their party had the entire restaurant—and bar—to itself, and said bar didn't close until 1 AM. Andrew's friends had more or less been incorporated into the hockey-playing crowd—alcohol was a great leveler—and seemed to have no problem whatsoever in matching drink for drink. It was a very _cosmopolitan_ gathering; English predominated, but Russian and French (both of the Canadian and other variety) weren't far behind. Sid was currently amusing himself by watching Panarin trail around after Anna I; he couldn't decide if “lost lamb” or “little lapdog” was the better description.

Somebody tapped him on the shoulder; he turned around to see all three of his possible choices for grand inquisitor standing there. Wearing smiles that might have seemed menacing to anybody who wasn't intimately acquainted with Andrew. Or his mother.

He smiled himself. “So: it's going to be a quartet?”

The woman who'd taken about a thousand pictures with her phone—Sid thought her name was Joyce—laughed, and said to the others, “I told you we needed to be more subtle!” The other woman nodded and said, pleasantly enough, “Don't you know it's dangerous to step on someone else's cue?”

“We're not used to being upstaged,” the man, whose name Sid did know—Juan Diego, the one who was going to come to a game with Andrew some time—mock-complained. “I practice looking ferocious in the mirror for twenty minutes.” He bared his teeth and said, “Grrr!”

Everybody laughed.

“Seriously, though: we were going to be good friends and threaten you with extinction if you don't treat Andrew well.”

“Even though Jenny here told us we shouldn't bother.”

“Really? Why not?” Sid asked the second woman.

“I spent almost a month in London with Andrew the winter after you two started dating,” she said. “The change in him was obvious.”

“Andrew, he is always the soul of politeness. Affable, attentive: the perfect colleague.”

“And a complete loner,” Joyce said candidly, “even in a group.”

“I knew he was in love five minutes after he arrived for rehearsal,” Jenny told him. “I had no idea who, of course.”

“We entertain ourselves for months trying to guess,” Juan Diego laughed. “Joyce even tried to get a look at his phone.”

She brandished her own. “Everybody's secrets are in their phones! But not Andrew's. Or not that I could tell, anyway: I didn't think twice about the NHL app. You were the best-kept secret in all of opera. And when all was revealed? I thought my phone was going to explode!”

“You make mine explode for real,” Juan Diego told her. “What, six messages in under a minute? You text even faster than you sing!”

“Excuse me: I need to tweet that!”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Anyway: like we said, we _were_ going to play the villain with you. But just watching the two of you?” She shook her head. “Not necessary.”

“Never, never, _never_ have I seen Andrew so happy. Happy to overflowing. And also . . . oh, content? Perhaps.”

“Just a little threat?” Joyce pleaded to the others. “Please?”

“Hit me,” Sid said grinning.

“Yes! Be good to him, and we're your friends for life. Treat him poorly?” She shook her phone at him. “Never underestimate my power. I will bring you down, down, down, Sidney Crosby.” She leaned forward. “Already, Deadspin has retweeted some of my pictures.”

Sid summoned some of the very few Italian words he knew: _“Io tremo_.” The other three burst into gales of laughter; they'd probably laugh even harder if they knew Andrew had taught him those words during phone sex.

“You really like Andrew, don't you,” Sid asked when they'd calmed down.

“Andrew is a dear, darling man,” Joyce declared, and Jenny nodded an emphatic agreement.

Juan Diego went further. “Of course. You think I come all this way for just anybody? Andrew is a tenor, as am I. We share the same repertory. You, who play sports: you think you know what rivalry is. You know _nothing_ compared to opera! We _invent_ backstabbing. But not Andrew, never him. He is _nice—_ almost an impossibility. _Everybody_ likes Andrew.”

“Everybody likes Andrew, but very few people truly know him,” Jenny informed Sid. “Until now, maybe.”

“Are you three done threatening him?” It was, of course, Andrew.

“Would we do that?” Joyce cooed.

“In a New York minute.” He eyed Sid assessingly, who smiled at him.

“To quote, uh,” Sid thought he'd better be discreet, “another of your colleagues: 'all is serene.'” To his surprise, Juan Diego . . . giggled.

“Ah, the incomparable Anna! _Viva l'imperatrice!”_

“Well, speaking of,” Andrew didn't even try to hide his grin, “Alex Ovechkin just asked her to sing something.”

“Does he still live?”

“Of course not.” Joyce got her phone into position. “Where's the body? Although if anybody could take Anna, it would be he.”

Sid thought that sounded promising.

Andrew explained to him, “Anna does not sing at gatherings. And she graciously excused Alex's ignorance of that fact.” To the others, he added, “Alex, however, is not giving up.”

“Excuse me!” Joyce's phone led the way across the room, Jenny following in their wake.

The three men chatted for a bit, but then were interrupted by Panarin.

“Anna, she want you.” He followed this with a spate of Russian, which evidently surprised Andrew quite a bit.

“It would appear that Anna is going to break her rule, but only if I sing with her.”

“Are you going to?”

“Why not?” Andrew grinned; “after all, I have my reputation as the Pen's favorite opera singer to uphold. Or defend, perhaps. Excuse me, please.” He and Panarin left.

“This, we cannot miss; the sun rises in the west today, it seems.”

“Uh, before we go: can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

Sid started explaining about Caroline, but he didn't even have to get to the favor part; Juan Diego was quick on the uptake, it seemed, and as a result, they still managed to get a good spot in the crowd assembling around Anna and Andrew.

“So, Andryusha, what shall we sing?”

“You would like me to choose?”

“ _Net, net, net_. You will, of course, defer to Anna. But the token protestation: it must be well done, Andryusha!”

“I'll do my small best,” Andrew laughed. “But if I may suggest: perhaps something Russian.”

Her face lit up. “I know the very thing. ' _Luna nad rekoy';_ it is agreeable?”

“Of course; 'Moon over the River' is a perfect choice.”

She clapped her hands. _“Otlichno!”_ And turning back to her audience, she began singing.

The first verse was hers alone, and despite his issues with her personally, Sid had to admit that her voice was incredible. It rolled out, like a blanket of untraveled snow, beautiful and yet tinged with a hint of desolation. Andrew's voice brought warmth to the landscape: a promise of rebirth, of dawn after the night, of spring after the winter. And the final verse had their two voices soaring, intersecting, bringing the hope of new life, of new love, to fruition. Or so it seemed to Sid, who of course didn't understand a word; he knew very well, though, how the song made him feel inside.

And as he joined in the applause that the performance truly deserved, Sid thought that if she could play hockey a tenth as well as she sang, then the game tomorrow wouldn't be an utter disaster.

He was not, however, going to hold his breath.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is not "BOOM" _le mot juste?_
> 
> And here we are, almost at the end! Fair warning: tomorrow's chapter is a short one--the better to whet your appetite for the grand finale, which will appear on Friday!


	20. Chapter 20

“Any final words of wisdom, _mon oie?”_ Andrew asked in his best innocent tone as they walked towards the hotel elevator.

“How can I give you any advice since we're playing on different teams?” Sid was proud of the fact that his voice didn't sound at all aggrieved. Or much, anyway.

“Well, I certainly wouldn't expect you to give away any state secrets. Or trade secrets, or whatever they'd be called,” Andrew teased as he pushed the button. “And even if you did, I probably wouldn't remember them at this point.”

“They say short-term memory is the first thing to go,” Sid said solemnly. And then grinned as he leapt back to escape Andrew's elbow. “Seriously, though: I don't have any advice. But . . .” he paused as the doors opened and they walked in, “I do have a question. A serious question.”

“All right. What is it?”

The elevator closed, but Sid didn't press the “Lobby” button.

“Are you looking forward to the game at all? Be honest.”

Andrew looked at Sid, a faintly sardonic expression on his face. “As I think I've mentioned to you once or twice before, Sidney, I'm not in the habit of lying, least of all to you. But to answer your question: yes. Yes, I am looking forward to the game. Part of me has been for a while, I think—despite my best efforts to convince myself otherwise. But coupled with that anticipation is my very sincere hope that I don't look like a jackass out there. And before you tell me yet again that I'm better than I think I am, allow me to remind you of two facts. One: almost the entire roster (and note my phrasing, please) for this game makes the All Star game seem almost insignificant. And two: this game is part of our wedding celebration; I can't help but be the object of intense scrutiny. Nonetheless, I am looking forward to it. It's yet another milestone in our relationship. After all,” he pressed the button and the car started moving, “we told the world who I was on the ice. We married each other on the ice. And it occurs to me, Sidney—thanks to a comment that Eli made recently—that you're not looking at the fact that we'll be on different teams in the best possible way.”

“Really? How? I can't imagine.”

Andrew leaned forward and kissed him. “Think of today's game as . . . extended foreplay.”

Sid kissed him back. “I really like the way you think.”

The elevator chimed; after a final swift kiss, Sid claimed Andrew's hand and led him towards the bus.

**********

Spirits were high in the locker room. And even though the facilities were primitive compared to what they were used to, Sid got the impression that most of the guys liked where they were. Nostalgia, maybe.

He squared his shoulders and went to do a (probably) unnecessary but (definitely) unpleasant task.

“Can I have a word with you, Claude?”

“Sure.”

They walked a few feet away. “Listen. I doubt that I actually have to say this. But Taylor said something to me, and . . . well, she's better with people than I am. Anyway: don't go easy on Andrew. Not that I think you necessarily would. And I don't mean fight him or anything like that. But . . . I guess what I'm trying to say is that if he actually accomplishes anything out there, I want him to feel like it was because of something he did, not because of something we didn't do. Okay?”

Giroux gave him an inscrutable look. After a minute he asked, “It's . . . a respect kind of thing, eh?”

Sid nodded; he should have known that Giroux would understand.

“Okay,” he said finally; “as it happens, I wouldn't have. But . . . I'd be lying if I said it hadn't occurred to me.” He hesitated for a second; “Looks like the Pens picked the right guy to give a hockey name to. If I haven't told you this before, Sid: I envy you.” And with that, he walked away.

**********

Just before they headed out to the ice, Sid's phone buzzed. Remembering one of his recent sessions with Tolliver (“Sid, in addition to not doing your rituals, it's time for you to _start_ doing ordinary things that were previously prohibited”), he glanced at it. A text from Andrew: 

> _I just want you to know: it wasn't my idea._

Wondering exactly what that meant, and realizing that he was sure to find out soon, Sid was about to put his phone away when another text came in: from Taylor this time. He stared at it. Why. . . ? He shook his head, but as he took his place in line, he found himself wondering why the fuck Taylor would be talking about glue guns.

**********

Sid's team was the first on the ice, and he grinned widely as he skated on. The stands were filled to overflowing, but since it was only an ordinary rink, everything was scaled down—and since it was an extraordinary game, the crowd was non-partisan, very friendly, and incredibly boisterous. It was probably a good thing that they weren't doing it at the Garden; that wouldn't have felt nearly as . . . welcoming.

Andrew's team started coming on, and when he appeared, Sid felt his heart swell—both from the sight of him jauntily saluting the crowd, as well as from the cheering reception he got from the audience.

And then Anna . . . made her entrance. And Taylor's text suddenly made sense. Somehow, she had found a helmet that matched her skates. Perfectly. And it was . . . embellished. With gems. In the shape of a tiara. With an A picked out in pink stones. There was no wave from her; instead, she made a deep bow (or would that be a curtsy? Whatever; Sid was reluctantly impressed that she didn't fall down) and then regally acknowledged the cheers. Every single Russian on the ice was tapping his stick: those she rewarded with a brilliant smile—and then she produced (Sid really didn't want to know from where) a small Russian flag which she held aloft. It was so over the top—so _her—_ that Sid felt his rancor dissipate. Somewhat.

As she finally went to take her place, she looked directly at him. And she winked. And Sid could do nothing else but lift his glove to his lips and salute her.

The crowd, of course, loved it.

Sid got another surprise when it came time for the anthem; he hadn't even considered that. But Andrew and Anna broke formation and headed towards the tunnel: where they were joined by all of Andrew's friends.

It was probably the only time in history that a dozen of the greatest opera singers in the world sang “The Star Spangled Banner”—with an encore of “O Canada”—before a hockey game; it was, to use Daniel's word, glorious.

And then they got ready to play. And Sid got the next surprise. Because Ovechkin pushed Andrew into position opposite Sid.

“We celebrate!” he exclaimed. “First face-off of career!”

Sid's grin couldn't have been wider, and Andrew's, though a little rueful, was just as genuine.

They got ready. And just before the puck dropped, Andrew looked directly at Sid.

“I can't wait to stick my tongue up your ass.”

Sid fumbled the puck. And the game was on.

**********

If Sid lived to be a hundred, he would never forget playing that game; some of the details were etched into his brain in almost preternatural detail.

He would never forget the sound of Andrew's laughter when Sid lost the face-off.

He would never forget the chirping he received for his “rookie mistake” when his shift ended.

He would never forget the sense of pride he felt—and which was probably all too evident on his face—when halfway through the first, Andrew found himself closest to the puck and executed a textbook saucer pass to Jon Toews, who slipped the puck past Flower and made the first goal of the game.

But there were three things that he remembered in especially vivid detail.

How hard he laughed when Andrew's friends, who had evidently retained their microphones and sang a little bit of an aria whenever anyone scored, chose to sing the “Hallelujah Chorus” when he made his first goal.

How strong his sense of disbelief was when Anna took to the ice with Kane and Panarin. She was one of the fastest skaters he'd ever seen, and had the sense to know her own strengths: which was to make darting forays to intercept the puck which she fed to her wingers. He also quickly recognized that her helmet was not mere affectation; she was so much shorter than everybody else that it was her way of ensuring her line could track her. (The skates, of course, were another matter entirely.) It took them a little while to establish a rhythm, but the three of them dominated the second. (And all by herself, she led both teams in chirping by shouting what Geno claimed was the most vulgar Russian he'd ever heard.)

And how gleeful he felt when, just before the end of the third, Andrew actually managed to gain control of the puck; wearing a wide grin, Sid immediately checked him, stole the puck, and set up the game winner.

The moment the buzzer sounded, he heard a shouted, “Crosby!” Still grinning, he turned to see Andrew flying down the ice towards him.

“And just what do you call that little maneuver?”

“I call it a legal check. Copley.”

“Really?” Andrew poked his shoulder; well, it was more of a shove. “Do you want to know what I call it?”

“Sure.”

Andrew threw his gloves down. “I call it,” and then, to the amusement of everybody who had circled them (obviously waiting to see what was going to happen), he picked Sid up, “wonderful!” And after he kissed Sid thoroughly, to the accompaniment of laughter, jeers, and catcalls . . . he dropped him flat on his ass.

Andrew leaned over him and laughed. Roared, actually. He was red from exertion, his hair was dripping sweat, he had a very nice bruise on one cheek and an abrasion on the other.

He had never looked more alluring.

So Sid snagged his stick and pulled Andrew down on top of him.

**********

The celebration after the game was epic.

Anna had declared herself the first star of the game (“because of course, I never play supporting roles!”) and was being feted by nearly everybody present. She and Sid had had a private (well, relatively private) moment early on: she had cocked her head at him and inquired, “And did the game meet your expectations, Zidney?”

“It exceeded them,” Sid told her honestly, “and so did you. Don't take this the wrong way, Anna, because I mean it as a compliment, but you are the sneakiest 'bitch not bitch' I've ever met.”

She preened—and then laughed merrily. “Oh, Zidney: nobody knows better than a soprano how to create—and maintain—an illusion. And you will forget I just said that; Anna never reveals her secrets!”

Sid laughed—and, impulsively, gave her a hug. “Consider it forgotten.”

She patted his cheek. “You are a very sweet man, Zidney. You and Andryusha will mesh well together. You with your points, and he with his counterpoint: it is a duet very few could imagine—or appreciate. But the two of you: you compose to your own rules. And the result? It is a love song for the ages, Zidney, and I, Anna, say to you: bravo. Bravissimi to you and my dear Andryusha.” She kissed both his cheeks, and with another pat, slipped away.

**********

Andrew felt a tug on his arm and knew immediately it was Sidney. He turned and grinned.

“Have we met?”

“Once or twice. I don't remember your name, though. Any of them.”

They laughed. “Having a good time, _mon oie?”_

“Of a certainty.” He struck a dramatic pose, and then added, “But I was getting lonely without you. Come sit with me for a while, Sasha.”

“Of course.” They found a small table near the side of the bar; Andrew scooted his chair close and put his arm around Sidney's shoulders.

“What a day!” he remarked.

“That's for sure. You know, Sasha, I've had a lot of really, really wonderful days since I met you, but this has to be right up there near the top. Thanks for indulging me.”

“It was hardly indulging you; I had a wonderful time myself.” And it was the truth. Once he had remembered one of _Dedushka_ Alex's favorite sayings: 'all you can do is the best you can do.' Good advice: and a comfort growing up with his parents.

With his usual penchant for being able to read his mind, Sidney gave him a squeeze and told him, “You were really good on the ice. I told you you would be.”

“You did. And you were, as you usually are in matters relating to hockey, quite correct. If 'good' may be defined as not embarrassing myself.”

Sidney rolled his eyes. “Spare me your modesty; Sasha, you got a point!” He grinned, “That was a sweet pass you made; I've never even seen you try one of those before. Where'd you learn that?”

Andrew supposed it was time to come clean. “In Thunder Bay.”

It only took Sidney a second or two. “Jordy taught you that? Why? How come?”

“It was . . . more of a group effort. I prevailed upon the Staal brothers for a little tutoring. In preparation for today.” And in retrospect, every ache and bruise had been worth it. “Thunder Bay was . . . oh, the third stop in my travels. To be perfectly honest with you, Sidney: I called in some favors and made every hockey player I knew in four provinces give me lessons.” Andrew was certain he was blushing a little.

“Why'd you do that? And why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I didn't want to humiliate myself—nor embarrass you. And because if I did either of those things, I didn't want to embarrass my tutors.”

Sidney pulled him into his arms. “God, Sasha! You're just . . . incredible! Meeting you was the luckiest day of my life.”

“I'm very happy you feel that way, _mon oie_. Especially since I feel the same way.” They smiled at each other.

One of the servers stopped and asked them if they needed anything; after she left, Sidney stared into space for a bit.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all. I was just thinking about what you did.” He hesitated—and then, rather obviously, changed what he'd been going to say. “Who was the best teacher?”

Andrew considered. “They were all good—or mostly. I felt the most comfortable with Tommy, of course. Your sister was extremely helpful; she had a somewhat different perspective, which I found useful. Learning from the brothers Staal was definitely the most intense—and of course, I knew them least of all.” He laughed a little; “Mrs. Staal told them not to break me; she was vastly entertained by the entire operation.”

“I wish I'd been there. How was Jon?”

Andrew cast a quick glance around before he answered. “If you want the truth: it was not particularly successful. Jonathan and I . . . we're too much alike, I think. Which was, I will admit to you and to no one else, a rather depressing realization.” As intended, his dry tone made Sidney laugh.

They thanked the server for their drinks. Sidney took a sip, and then, a bit abruptly, put his glass down. “There's really nothing you wouldn't do for me, is there.”

It was not really a question, but Andrew answered it anyway. “I'd like to think that I would do anything in my power for you if you needed it.”

A rather rough shake of his head. “No, that's not . . . I mean, yeah, Andrew: you would. But that's you: when someone you love, or care about a lot, needs something, you're there. You take care of your own. You're incredibly protective and . . . nurturing, I guess. You'll be a great dad. But . . . leaving 'need' aside: I didn't _need_ the game today. I wanted it, for sure, but I didn't need it. And even though I was an asshole about it, not only did you agree to do it, but now I find out you spent your own time doing all this extra training for it. So you wouldn't embarrass me, you said, but I'm thinking it was more like you didn't want to spoil it for me.”

Andrew brushed this aside. “I didn't want to embarrass _myself,_ Sidney. You forget, I think, that I'm rather competitive. And have a fairly healthy ego besides.”

Sidney put on his stubborn face. “You can try all you want to convince yourself, Andrew, but I know I'm right. Which makes today even more special. And which makes me glad. . . .”

“What?”

Sidney didn't answer right away; instead, he surveyed the room. He nodded—although Andrew had no idea at what or why—picked up his glass and drained the entire thing.

“I'm glad that I had already thought of something. Come on, Sasha, I have a little . . . well, call it a surprise . . . for you.”

**********

Andrew followed him to the center of the bar, wondering exactly what was going on. He felt his eyes narrow when he saw Sidney make some kind of gesture to his father, whose face lit up as he nudged Troy and took something out of his pocket. Sidney, meanwhile, was beckoning him over to a small table where Tommy, Brandon, and a couple of others were sitting.

“What's up with you, Sid?”

Ignoring Tommy's question, Sidney told him and the others at the table, “You have to move; I need this table.” Tommy gave him a quizzical look; when that got him nothing, he cast it in Andrew's direction.

Andrew shrugged.

As soon as the guys had vacated their seats, Sid got on top of the table.

“Come on, Sasha!”

Andrew studied him for a moment: his face was . . . difficult to assess. Determination predominated, so repressing a sigh, Andrew climbed up and stood next to him.

“Are you sure this thing will hold both of us?” he inquired politely.

“No. But what's life without taking a few chances?”

People had started noticing, but when the music faded away—thanks to his own father, Andrew had no doubt—Sidney clapped his hands together and a crowd started gathering around the table.

“Okay. If I could have everybody's attention for a few minutes. Even yours, Anna.”

Everybody laughed.

“I have something real important to say. First of all, my name is Sidney and I'm an Andrew-holic.”

“Hello, Sidney!” burst forth, among much laughter.

“I was going to wait until later to do this, when everybody was a lot more drunk—including me—but . . . well, this just seemed like the right time.

“Anyway: you all know why we're here tonight: because we played a fucking fantastic game today. One with more stars than,” he paused to think and then snapped his fingers, “a Meyerbeer opera!”

Every opera singer—and opera fan—in the room started clapping. And laughing, of course.

“And I mean no disrespect to our hockey diva,” he bowed and made a ridiculous flourish towards Anna, who turned and acknowledged the cheers with a regal wave, “but I have to tell you all, that the most demanding role today was played by my husband, uh, to be. You know, the hockey tenor.” He started clapping; everybody joined in, and Andrew felt both hideously embarrassed and enormously touched.

Sidney held up his hands. “And a lot of you don't even know the half of it. See: Andrew and me, we don't fight hardly at all. But, uh, I . . . well, to be honest, I really fucked things up by not asking him in advance if he'd be willing to play today. I kind of forced him into it. And he let me have it: and all in English, so I knew it was serious.”

Pretty much every person in the crowd started to laugh; Andrew put his hands on his hips and pretended to glare, which increased the hilarity.

And then Sidney got serious. “And he was absolutely right. I shouldn't have done it that way. And I'm sorry, Andrew; I really am. But you know,” he turned back to his audience, “Andrew said one thing during our tussle that really, really made an impression on me. He said, 'Put yourself in my place, Sidney.' And ever since, I've been thinking about that. I mean, part of me got it, you know? On an intellectual level, or whatever. But I didn't _really_ get it until later. The fact that I was asking Andrew to play, uh, an equal role with my colleagues, some of the absolutely top players in the NHL. Which was incredibly unfair of me.

“And then: I realized something else.” He shifted a little. “The only way I could totally understand what Andrew felt . . . was to do exactly that. Put myself in his place. I mean, literally. And do the same kind of thing he had the courage to do. To stand in front of the love of my life and _his_ colleagues, the greatest opera singers in the world today, and sing.”

Andrew felt his eyes well up; he hoped he didn't actually start crying.

“So that's what I'm going to do. It's not going to be pretty; Andrew's a much better player than I am a singer. But you know what?” he grinned, “It's the thought that counts.”

The sound of a piano started coming out of the bar's speakers, and Sidney turned, took his hands, and started singing “You're The Top.” Except he was using Irving Berlin's parodic version. With the filthy lyrics.

The crowd loved it; Andrew managed to keep himself more or less under control until Sidney told him he was “the starch in a groom's erection” while leering preposterously, but then he became pretty much unhinged—especially when Sidney changed the lyrics at the end. 

> _I'm an opera fan who will love you 'til I drop;_
> 
> _Because Sasha, I'm the bottom and you're the top!_

Choking on his laughter, Andrew pulled Sidney towards him and enveloped him in a hug. And then, as the applause mounted, he said in Sidney's ear, “I am so ridiculously in love with you. Now take your bow. And never, _ever_ sing in public again.”

And uttering his incredibly endearing honks, Sidney complied.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! I hope you all liked today's chapter--never let it be said that Sid is incapable of learning things!--and, of course, are looking forward to tomorrow's. (Cue some appropriate music!)
> 
> I'm going to take advantage of the fact that today's chapter was a short one (I swear I didn't plan it that way!) by usurping your time in other ways. I'd like to ask all of you for your opinion on something: posting schedules. Is a chapter a day too often? I honestly have no idea; it seemed to make sense when I started out with AFTR, and more than a few people seemed to like that schedule (plus getting the story front-loaded, if you'll forgive that phrase!), but a couple of things people have said since have made me wonder. One definite advantage of the way I've been doing things is that the whole story gets out there sooner than later; however, one _disadvantage_ is that (of course) the story gets finished faster that way. It's a battle, I suppose, between wanting to know what happens, and not wanting the story to end. So, if any of you have strong feelings about this issue, and wouldn't mind sharing them in the comments, I would greatly appreciate it. I don't have any immediate plans for writing another epic, but one never knows!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the title of this story gains another level of meaning.

Sid woke up to the sound of Andrew singing. 

> _Brightly dawns our wedding day!_
> 
> _Joyful hour we give thee greeting!_

He rolled over and smiled. “That's nice. Is there any more?”

“There is. Most of it doesn't fit the context, but . . . here's the refrain.”

Sid propped himself up as he listened. “That was really different,” he commented at the end. “What kind of music is that?”

Andrew grinned. “It's a madrigal. A merry madrigal.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “Uh, I kind of got that from the twenty times you sang those words.”

Laughing, Andrew gave him a hug. “It's from a Gilbert and Sullivan opera. And it's actually a quartet; somehow a single vocal line seemed inadequate to express how happy I am right now.”

“Me too.” Sid thought his smile would split his face in half. “I can't believe it's today. We're actually getting married today!”

“We are. Finally. When we go to bed tonight, we will be totally, completely, ineradicably married. Until the end of time.” He sighed happily. “And then we get to go on our honeymoon. I have plans, Sidney. So many, many plans.”

“I have a few myself. And for the record, as you like to say, not all of mine are for the honeymoon.”

“You intrigue me, _mon oie_.”

“I'll do more than that.”

**********

They were the last two down for breakfast, which didn't surprise Sid at all. What did surprise him was how . . . calm everything was.

“What, no cast of thousands?” Andrew asked his father. “No circus performers? _Corps de ballet?_ Flocks of doves to add that certain _je ne sais quoi_ to my oatmeal?”

“You needn't be snide, Sasha. And if you'd bothered to read the agenda for the day, you'd know that the doves aren't scheduled until later.”

Andrew stopped short, the coffee pot held motionless in his hand. “Tell me you're joking.”

Daniel merely smiled. Enigmatically.

“Would anyone else here like to know why I am so thankful today is the wedding?” Elisabeth remarked to the air. “It's because after today, we will all officially be one family. And also because I most fervently hope that after today, I will have my husband and my son restored to me. In their original, unacerbic versions.” She shared her minatory glare between them. “I would consider it a great personal favor if the two of you would do your best to prove Dr. Johnson wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” her son asked politely.

“About his dictum that one lives in hope, but dies in despair.”

Everybody laughed. But Elisabeth wasn't finished.

“Now I suggest—strongly—that the two of you bury the hatchet before I do it for you. As appealing as that prospect is to me.”

Andrew crossed the room to give his mother a hug.

“I'll do my best, Mom. Sorry.” Then he turned to his father. “I apologize, Dad. Again.”

“It's all right, Sasha.” Daniel hesitated. “I will admit, now that the happy day has finally arrived, that it is possible I went to extremes on occasion.”

“Handsomely said,” Elisabeth told them both, “if perhaps too heavily laden with qualifiers. Andrew, you will make sure your best is good enough, and Daniel, you will acknowledge, once and for all, that out of stubbornness you ignored your usual good sense. It ends, here and now. And not a moment too soon; I will have no further sniping. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

Their muttered chorus of “Yes” was interrupted by applause from the table.

“Well done! You're almost as good as Mama was.”

“Almost?” Eisabeth quirked an eyebrow at her brother.

“Perhaps in another twenty years you'll be her match. Perhaps.”

“I can't decide if I'm sorry I never met your mother,” Sid remarked, “or if I should be very, very glad.”

Elisabeth laughed at him. “Mama would have loved you, Sidney. Don't you think so, Edward?”

Uncle Edward considered Sid. “Probably,” he decided. “She admired men whose life had purpose: who pursed dreams. Or goals, I suppose. She also admired men who coupled their ambitions with love. That's how she reconciled Papa when I found my vocation.”

“I hardly think 'reconciled' is the proper word; there were no arguments that I recall.”

“Well, you were much younger. As much as Papa liked to talk, he could craft an oration out of silence.”

Sid snuck a look at Andrew and tried not to snicker. One of these days, he was going to ask Daniel to explain dominant genes to him.

Taylor looked out the window. “Someone just drove up. Oh, it's Simon. And Nealer, too.”

Daniel looked baffled. “I can't imagine why Simon's here. And before you ask, Lis, no, I have not charged him with any last minute details.”

“I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear that, Daniel.” Dryly. And with the tiniest whiff of skepticism.

“Now that,” her brother said approvingly, “was even better than Mama.”

**********

Simon was holding the reason why he was there under his arms: a thick stack of newspapers.

“I convinced the distributor to . . . donate a few copies early,” he explained as he passed them out.

“What is it?” Sid's father asked.

“The wedding announcement,” Simon told him.

“Really? I can't wait to see this picture Daniel's been talking about.”

“Oh, it's something,” Nealer snickered. “I hope you realize, Sid, that there is no one in the whole league who won't chirp you over this.”

Sid managed—barely—to resist squirming. It had been difficult to convince Daniel not to show it to his parents earlier; why did he always think that putting things off would make them easier?

Andrew leaned close to him and sang something softly.

“What does that mean?”

“'The fatal hour approaches.'”

“Holy shit!” It was, predictably, Taylor. Who then realized, and started apologizing, but Uncle Edward brushed her off.

“God created all things, Taylor, and therefore all of his creations are holy. Including shit.”

Sid chanced a look at his parents; if he wasn't mistaken, his father was blushing. He buried his head in his own copy and started to read it, Andrew looking over his shoulder. He got to the end of the the first paragraph . . . and stopped.

“Andrew,” he asked, pointing, “did I know that an American Supreme Court justice was performing the ceremony?”

“I don't know, Sidney: did you?”

Sid scowled at him. “Don't be a smart ass. How'd we manage that? For that matter, _who_ managed that?”

“For all intents and purposes, I did. Although I didn't really have to do anything; when I called her, she offered before I could actually ask.”

“She did?”

Andrew shrugged. “She's an opera fan.” Then he grinned, “Remember that concert I gave in D.C.? The one Alex and his wife came to?”

Sid nodded.

“Well, she was in the audience that night; in fact, she was sitting in the same row as the Ovechkins. She's a lovely person; I think you'll like her. We're meeting with her about half an hour before the ceremony.”

“That much I knew. About the meeting, at least.” Sid went back to his perusal.

“Well,” he commented when he got to the end, “on paper, we're pretty impressive. I hope we can live up to it in person.”

“Somehow, my dear,” Elisabeth said rather wryly, “I don't think that's going to be a problem.”

**********

After breakfast, Andrew excused himself to go do his vocal exercises; Sid found himself at loose ends, and after wandering around for a while kind of aimlessly, he ended up joining Andrew in his practice room.

“You mind?”

“Not at all.”

So Sid slumped back, closed his eyes, and listened. It was far from the first time he'd heard Andrew practice his daily routines, and there was something comforting about the fact that despite the gap of months while Andrew recuperated, there was a sense of continuity in hearing him do the same exercises now, in the same order. He'd come in at about the two-thirds point, where things got very elaborate; Andrew executed the runs with almost mathematical precision, and Sid let himself be transported by the sound of Andrew's voice.

When Andrew stopped, Sid opened his eyes and clapped a little. And grinned at the unmistakably fond eye roll. Sid patted the cushion next to him.

“Have a seat.”

Andrew did, and then swiveled around so his head was in Sid's lap. They smiled at each other, and Sid smoothed his hair off of his forehead.

“Everything all set for your big solo tonight?”

“I suppose; to be honest though,” and he ground the back of his head into Sid's crotch, “I'm more interested in our duet than my solo. How about you?”

“I'm always interested in our duets. And I always love hearing you sing. But . . . today, I think the singing would win.”

“Really?”

Sid nodded. “Sasha, you _know_ how your singing affects me. But today of all days? If I'm going to lose it, it'll be then.”

Andrew, through the simple expedient of bobbing his head up at the same time as he pulled Sid down by his shirt front, kissed him. “ _Merci du compliment, mon oie_. I don't care if you cry; I probably will myself. And I _know_ Dad and Mom will. But if it heartens you at all, I'll tell you that my selection is . . . well, joyful. In the extreme. It is also, I will admit, one of the most difficult arias I've ever learned; I hope I don't flub it.”

“You won't,” Sid said confidently.

“Well, I'll certainly try my best. I find myself wondering about the singer it was originally composed for; whoever it was had to be a true virtuoso.”

Sid leaned down and stole another kiss. “Then it's a good choice for you.”

“Why, thank you.”

“What are you singing, anyway? You haven't said.”

“It's not a well-known aria. At all. In fact, I'd never heard of it—or of the composer. Remember that day the car broke down?”

“For sure.”

“Well, when you were off doing your training, I got a letter. From the aspiring opera singer I offered to talk to. He thanked me quite nicely—we might meet in the fall sometime—and he enclosed a facsimile of the manuscript of this aria. It's a prothalamion—that's a song composed specifically to be sung at a wedding—and according to him, it had been gathering dust in some obscure archive for a couple of hundred years. He thought I might like to sing it at our wedding. And once I took a look at it, I was sold. You know. . . .”

There was a knock then.

“Sid,” his father said, a wide smile on his face, “some friends of yours are here.”

“This early? And what are they doing here?”

Obviously trying to suppress a laugh, his dad said, “I think there were, uh, transportation issues.”

Sid groaned. Andrew rolled off him, stood, and pulled Sid up after him.

“Let's go, Sidney; the sooner we get this sorted out, the sooner we can enjoy what's left of the calm before the storm.”

**********

Sid took one step into the Copley's front hall and stopped short. “You've got to be fucking _kidding_ me!”

The Cup handler laughed. “Bettman's orders. The Cup always likes to be present when history is made.”

Sid tried to suppress his snort. He could tell that Andrew shared his skepticism, but all he said was, “What a lovely gesture! How . . . thoughtful of Mr. Bettman.” He met Sid's eyes; clearly, what was unspoken was exactly what Bettman was being thoughtful of. Or who. Still, though. . . .

“This is so great! Andrew, where. . . ?” But before he could finish the sentence, Daniel poked his head into the hall.

“What's all the excitement?”

“We have an unexpected guest for the wedding, Daniel.” Sid nodded his head.

Daniel came all the way in. “Good God! The Cup!”

“I hope this doesn't disarrange your seating plans too much, Dad,” Andrew said sweetly.

The look Daniel gave his son could only be called smug. “Of course not, Sasha; naturally, I arranged for a pedestal in case the Cup should attend. I don't leave things to chance, you know.”

“Oh, naturally. Gentlemen: do please excuse me for a moment.”

Andrew walked out the front door; Sid waited for the scream.

What he heard was laughter. Maybe a little unhinged in places, but definitely laughter.

**********

“Didn't we just do this?”

“Now that you mention it, I am experiencing a little _dé_ _ja vu_. You know, Sidney,” Andrew remarked as he adjusted his waistcoat, “I'm a bit surprised that you didn't insist we not see each other before the ceremony. Isn't that one of the most prevalent superstitions about weddings?”

“Maybe it is, but I didn't know about it. And I don't think I would have cared, to be honest. Fuck my life, Andrew: would you please help me?”

“It's a good thing you don't have to dress formally very often. Yes, I'll help you, but stop fussing; you'll get the shirt all wrinkled.”

“That's impossible,” Sid said sourly; “there's three pounds of starch in it.”

“If anyone could manage it, it would be you. There.” He patted Sid's chest. “Turn around and I'll do your tie for you.”

With his tongue firmly in his cheek, Sid said, “I don't know why you wouldn't let me get one that was already tied.”

“For the same reason I wouldn't let you wear bits of plastic in your shirt: I have standards.”

“Can I see your driver's license?”

Andrew gave Sid a quizzical look through the mirror. “Now there's a non sequitur. Why would you even ask me that right now?”

“Because I need to make sure I'm marrying the right man. You sounded so snotty just now, I thought maybe you were Jon Toews.”

“Perish the thought.” They both laughed.

“All right: here's your waistcoat. Good God, Sidney: you'd think you'd never encountered buttons before. Let me do it. And now the coat.” He stepped back, eyed Sid critically, and then made an adjustment. Or two. “There. All finished.”

Sid turned to the mirror. “Not bad,” he admitted.

“You look gorgeous,” Andrew retorted, slipping on his own coat. He then treated himself to an even more critical assessment in the mirror, before nodding and turning away. “People won't be able to take their eyes off of you.”

Sid snorted. “Yeah, right.” He glanced at his watch and grimaced. “According to Samantha, it's time to go downstairs. I know it's impossible—but I wish we could've banned all media from this.”

“I agree. But . . . better the devil you know; if we'd done that, they just would have tried to sneak in. This way, we have a modicum of control. In theory, anyway. And at least it's not for the entire evening. All in all, I'd say that getting to the estate early seems a small price to pay.”

“I guess. And it's not like we won't have our own photographer there anyway.” He took one last look in the mirror, peered closer, and then straightened one of his shirt studs. “Okay.” He turned, and with a grin, crooked his finger at Andrew. “How about one last kiss as a single man? Outside of Scotland, anyway.”

“I won't guarantee it's the last one before the ceremony,” Andrew laughed as he wrapped his arms around Sid. “Mmmm. A harbinger of things to come. I love you so, so much, _mon oie_ ; my heart has never been so full.”

“Well, my heart is singing,” Sid confessed, stealing another kiss. “Don't tell anyone, Sasha, but I love you more than hockey. Uh, no offense.”

“None taken, I'm sure. We'll keep it a secret among the three of us. Come on, let's go.”

Sid nodded, and picking up the Cup, followed Andrew out of the room.

**********

The limousine pulled up to the gates of the estate and stopped.

“I hope they don't ask for our invitations,” Andrew quipped; “I seem to have misplaced mine.”

“That vetting takes place further on,” Daniel told him, “just before the retina scan.”

Sid saw his parents exchange a glance. “He's joking,” he told them, trying to make his voice more confident than he actually felt.

“I am,” Daniel admitted—and then added drolly, “the security people resisted my suggestions. Without exception, I will say. Such a pity: I thought my idea of a patrol of armed drones had real merit. Now, the logistics officer was much less hide-bound.”

“The what, Daniel?”

“Not a what, Taylor, a who. The logistics officer. A very nice fellow. Former military; he was wounded rather severely in Iraq.”

“I'm not entirely sure I want to know,” Andrew said, “but do enlighten us: what role is your logistics officer playing in this wedding?”

“He's overseeing the movement—and the placement, of course—of all the cars. And the buses too, naturally. Between the two of us, we came up with quite an efficient RFID tracking system; his military experience was invaluable. A very logical mind; I've had him in to speak with R&D. I honestly do believe that some of the applications I've prototyped for this event will have wider use.”

“I can see it now,” Taylor said, her mirth barely contained. “Weddings by Daniel. Resistance is futile.”

Daniel beamed at her. “What a wonderful compliment!” Turning to Sid's parents, he said, “You have such lovely children!”

**********

The car stopped again shortly after it passed through the gates.

“I thought,” Daniel said, a little diffidently, “that we might walk up the rest of the way. The landscaping is quite superb.”

“That sounds lovely, darling. Be warned, however: these shoes were not made for long hikes.”

“I've never understood how you can walk at all in those things,” Sid told her.

She smiled at him. “Practice, my dear. I believe you're familiar with the concept.”

Once everybody was out of the car, Sid surveyed the scene.

“Wow,” Taylor commented, “it's like we're in a movie. One of those Jane Austen ones, maybe.”

“I don't know about Jane Austen,” her father said, “but this is sure something.”

And it was. The drive was long and curved slightly; it was edged by flower beds: here, compact mounds with tiny blue flowers, there, green-leaved plants sporting tall spikes with pale lavender buds. The expanse of grass beyond the beds was lush and uniformly brilliant green: Sid didn't think he'd ever seen a lawn so smooth. As they got closer to the house, there were stands of taller flowers and shrubs and even some ornamental trees, interspersed with bits of statuary. There was a large turn-around in front of the house itself that had a fountain in the middle; the sprays of water sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. And the house. . . .

“It makes Mario's place look like a shack,” he muttered to Andrew.

A woman about Elisabeth's age met them near the front door. She greeted Daniel like an old friend; he introduced her to the party, saying, “I quite literally could not have arranged this without her.”

When Alice shook hands with Sid and Andrew—and after she congratulated them—she said, “I hope you'll be pleased with what Daniel and I have done.”

“I'm sure we will be,” Andrew told her, “and let me be the first to thank you. Both for your efforts, and also for not murdering my father.”

Alice laughed. “Daniel was a joy to work with.” She laughed again as Andrew's raised eyebrows were accompanied by various sounds of disbelief from some of the others. “No, I mean it: I've overseen more than a few events here, and this is the first one where the house and grounds are being used as they were when the estate was new. It's like a trip back through time; people just don't give parties like this any more.”

Daniel nodded. “Which is exactly what I wanted. A grand party, in the old style. After all, boys: love like yours doesn't come around every day; it deserves to be celebrated.”

Both Sid and Andrew gave him a hug, and Andrew whispered something to his father that Sid didn't catch. As Alice led them around to show them where the actual ceremony would take place, he asked, “What did you say to him?”

“Oh, just thank you. And I apologized for being a brat. Again.” He looked around and took a deep breath. “Oh, Sidney: now that it's here—and now that _we're_ here,” he waved his arm, encompassing, “I almost can't believe it. It's real, somehow—in a way it wasn't before. Even this morning. It's like we've been transported to another realm.”

“Well, I hope everybody else doesn't get lost. You know Dr. McCoy never trusted the transporter.”

Andrew snickered. Then they turned the corner and both stopped dead in their tracks. And stared, gape-mouthed.

“Well, boys?” Daniel asked after a few moments. “Do you like it?” He sounded . . . anxious.

“I am . . . speechless. Almost completely. Dad, it's . . . .”

“It's like paradise,” Sid broke in.

“Exactly! What is it called, in that poem? It's the Bower of Bliss!”

There were tons of chairs, of course, but Sid's eyes slipped over those and focused on the flowers. Which were everywhere. Large beds, which were obviously part of the formal gardens, but masses of pots held others, short and tall, all arranged together so naturally that Sid knew it must have taken hours, if not a couple of days. And now that he looked: the chairs weren't all lined up in straight rows, either; they curved slightly, and many were broken up by more pots, some holding trellises barely visible under brightly blooming vines. Besides the borders of the beds, the most regular thing about the scene was the main path that bisected the expanse of seats—and even it wasn't perfectly straight; Sid tugged Andrew and walked towards the front, where there was a clear area in front of a backdrop made entirely of flowers, in which potted hollyhocks in an array of colors—dark crimson against pale yellow and pink—predominated.

If ever there were a scene that exemplified harmony and love, this had to be it.

Sid turned towards Daniel and pulled him into a tight hug. “Daniel,” he said, his voice a little unsteady, “it's just . . . perfect. Thank you so much!”

Daniel patted his back, but before he could say anything, Andrew usurped Sid's place.

“Dad, I don't have the words to thank you. So instead: I'm taking back every snide comment I've made since June. You didn't deserve them, and I don't know what I ever did to deserve a father like you.”

Daniel hugged his son even more tightly, and since they were clearly having a moment, Sid turned towards the others, who were wandering around, admiring.

“Hey, Sid,” his father called over, “did you notice?” He pointed, and Sid stared for a second before he started laughing.

“What's so funny?” Andrew asked, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief.

“Look at the trellises.” Andrew did, and started laughing himself.

Every trellis had at least one hockey stick in it.

Daniel grinned. “What can I say? It's a theme party.”

**********

Alice led them to the room where they'd be talking to the press. It turned out to be the music room and Sid couldn't help but laugh.

“Believe it or not, there's no hidden message,” Alice told them; “Given the numbers involved, it was the best choice.”

There were already more than a few people in the room. Many more. Including Jen, who looked . . . stunning. And both Sid and Andrew told her so, before Andrew said rather sternly, “Jen: I thought we agreed that you're not on duty today.”

“I'm not, Andrew, really; I simply decided that there was no reason for me not to enjoy myself.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow, and Jen leaned closer. “I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed watching the two of you this summer,” she said softly. “So there's no way I'm going to miss even a minute of the grand finale!”

Both Sid and Andrew rolled their eyes. In unison. Which made Jen laugh.

“Seriously, though: I can't tell you how positive the feedback has been lately—especially to the _You Can Play_ interview. And in light of Bettman's press release? I'd say the two of you have started something wonderful: and it's only going to get better—as the saying goes.”

“I for sure hope so,” Sid said; “I'd hate to think we went through all of this . . . stuff . . . for nothing.”

Andrew patted his back. “Well, let's run this final gantlet.”

Sid sighed. “Okay.”

“Before you start, though: have you checked Twitter lately?”

Sid snorted. “I'm assuming you're asking Andrew that question, not me.”

Jen laughed. As did Andrew.

“No, I haven't. Well, not since last night. Briefly. To be honest, Jen, I've been avoiding the entire online universe for some time now. Why do you ask?”

She shook her head. “You should look. I don't want to spoil anything.

Andrew raised an eyebrow at Sid, who nodded—and then looked on as Andrew turned his phone on.

“Well,” Andrew said after a moment. “You might say we're trending.”

“Is that all about us?”

“We appear to have many, many hashtags. Oh look, Sidney: _#NHLove_ ; I wonder how that's going over with . . . well, you know.”

“If you mean Bettman, he's probably shitting himself. Hey: look at that one, Sasha! _#hockeyopera—_ that's fantastic!”

Andrew grinned at Sid. “What do you think, Sidney: shall we . . . respond?”

Sid got it immediately. And laughed. “For sure!”

“All right. And just to show Jen how much we've learned from her. . . .” He turned towards the reporters and photographers.

“If I may have your attention please! We're going to get started in just a few minutes, but first: Sidney and I would like you to witness an historic event.”

“Another one?” somebody quipped, to much laughter.

“You have no idea,” Sid smiled.

“There should really be some portentous music for this. All right, Sidney: let's get into position.”

And in front of a very appreciative audience, Andrew Singleton and Sidney Crosby did something they'd never, ever done before.

They took a selfie. And posted it to Twitter.

**********

Sid wasn't surprised when he left the room where they'd met with the justice to find Andrew right outside.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“That's fine. But I will admit to burning curiosity. What did you have to discuss with her in private?”

“Just a legal matter,” Sid said airily. “Nothing that concerns you. Yet.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. “That sounds . . . ominous. Are you planning to divorce me already?”

“Yeah, right. No, I just wanted her opinion on something. Which I'll tell you about as soon as we're with our parents.”

“Ah,” Andrew said, his face clearing. “Well, it can't be too bad then.”

“It's not bad at all. And I would have told you before, but it wasn't really settled until yesterday. Hey, Mom, Dad? Everybody, I have something to announce.”

“Your retirement?” Taylor inquired innocently.

“Bite your tongue,” Andrew told her; “he can't retire until I've taken him for every penny he's worth.”

Sid laughed. “No, it's nothing like that. It's just . . . okay. I decided to change my name.”

_That_ certainly got everybody's attention.

“You're kidding,” Andrew said finally.

“I'm not. Well, I'm not changing it, exactly. I'm adding to it. See,” he turned to his parents, “Andrew's got a lot of names. And I think it's really nice that one of them is his mom's family name. So I decided to add Forbes to mine: Sidney Patrick Forbes Crosby. That way, both sides of my family will be represented.”

Sid's mom gave him a big hug—Sid thought she might be crying a little—and his dad gave him a very approving look: as did all of the Copleys; Andrew's special smile was out in full force.

Sid starting counting in his head. He'd made it to four when Andrew's expression . . . changed. He didn't say anything right away, but as everybody started moving to go take their places, he held Sid back for a moment.

“Not to detract from that lovely sentiment—at all—but if I may ask?”

“Uh, sure,” Sid grinned widely.

Andrew's tone was politeness itself. “Was there perhaps another reason that inspired this decision? Some stray wisp of competitiveness? Since now I no longer have more names than you do?”

“Sasha, believe me when I tell you that that was just a bonus.”

**********

For all that Daniel had micro-managed almost every aspect of the wedding, there were two things he'd left entirely (well, mostly) to Andrew and Sid. One, of course, was the music—and that was kind of under duress, Sid thought, since he kept making “suggestions.” But the details of the ceremony itself were theirs and theirs alone.

_“So: what should we do?” Sid had asked._

_“Well, we have_ carte blanche _. How elaborate do you want this to be?”_

_“Uh, not very. I mean, it can't be religious at all—not that I would want that, to be honest. So, no readings or anything like that.” Sid made a face. “I went to a wedding once where somebody recited a poem he had written for the occasion. It was horrible.”_

_“I think we can do without poetry,” Andrew agreed . . . and then he grinned. “Although I might make an exception for limericks. 'There once was a boy from Cole Harbour' has rather a nice ring to it, don't you think?”_

_“No. Besides, what rhymes with 'Harbour?'”_

_“Not very much,” Andrew said after giving it some thought. “I suppose we could resort to near rhymes. How about: 'There once was a boy from Cole Harbour, Whose ass just got larger and larger.'”_

_“Don't give up your day job anytime soon, Andrew.”_

_“Well, it was extemporaneous; I'll keep working on it. But seriously: while my impulse is to say, 'let's keep it very simple,' we also don't want the ceremony to be over in two minutes.”_

_“We don't?”_

_“Certainly not. People will feel cheated. Besides, an extremely brief ceremony means that they'll all have to try extra hard to pretend that they're not there primarily for the booze.”_

_Sid snorted. “Most of my friends don't even bother to pretend; flasks are standard equipment.”_

_“Well, my friends from prep school will love your friends then. The last wedding I went to for one of them was notable for the best man reaching into his pocket for the wedding rings and handing them to the minister along with a couple of joints.”_

_“You're kidding.”_

_“I'm not.” Andrew laughed, “The minister just stood there staring at his hand. And then the groom—he was my friend—said, very loudly, 'Sweet! I had to pack my bong already!'”_

_When Sid had finished honking, he told Andrew, “I really can't wait to meet these guys.”_

_“Believe me, you're not missing much. We were all good friends back in the day, but what's attractive at age sixteen isn't necessarily so more than ten years later.”_

_“Uh, maybe you haven't noticed, but sixteen is pretty much the age level of most of what goes on in a locker room.”_

_“I suppose—although I would have pegged 'your mama' jokes more at age twelve. But we digress, as we so often do. Let's figure this out. We go in.”_

_“Together or separate?”_

_“I . . . don't know. I don't think we're supposed to go in together. Symbolically, I mean. We go in as two, but we leave as one.”_

_“We're already one.”_

_“I know. But no one else does. And if you want to live to see the Cup being raised next season, you'll make sure it stays that way.”_

_“Oh, Daniel won't kill me,” Sid snickered; “he'll believe me when I tell him it was all your idea.” He adopted his version of an innocent tone. “'Sasha is the one who told me about hand-feasting.'”_

_“That's hand-fasting, you dolt. Although honesty compels me to admit that you're probably correct. Anyway: I suppose we could go in separately, but do it at the same time. Perhaps from opposite sides.”_

_“We don't get to walk down the aisle?”_

_“I think not. Unless you want to wear a dress.” Andrew patted Sid's ass. “God knows you could carry off a train. Possibly several. Simultaneously.”_

_“You love my ass,” Sid leered._

_“I do. And the sooner we wrap this up, the sooner I can demonstrate that fact. At length.”_

_“Now, there's an incentive. Okay. We go in. It's us and our parents. And the JP, I guess. Then what?”_

_“Then the justice will probably say something. Then it's our turn. We say our vows, we're pronounced husband and husband, and then we get to walk down—or up, I suppose—the aisle while the crowd cheers. Oh, and I suppose that's when we do the canopy thing with the Pens; they'll have to sit on the aisles. Or something; Dad will, of course, manage that. And then we can all get drunk. After we have our pictures taken five thousand times.”_

_“You make it sound so romantic,” Sid teased. “But I have a question. Or two, maybe. When do you sing?”_

_“I'm not entirely sure,” Andrew confessed. “I had it in mind to sing after the vows—once we're actually married—but the more I think about it, the more I believe I should sing earlier. At the risk of sounding totally ridiculous: if this were being staged, singing after the vows would spoil the dramatic flow from pronouncement to grand exit; it's not like there's much else that can happen. So, I imagine I'll sing before the vows. Or I could do it at the very beginning, I suppose. Do you have any preference?”_

_Sid thought about it. “It would maybe be better before the vows,” he said finally. “After the JP tells everybody why we're there. Which, duh. But I kind of think that you singing then makes it . . . oh, more part of the actual ceremony. Singing at the beginning? I don't know. Maybe if I was a woman, and was walking down the aisle where you were waiting, that would be nice. But I think . . . no, actually, I_ know _that I'd rather you sing before the vows. It just . . . feels better that way. In thinking about it, I mean.”_

_“Then it's settled,” Andrew said, giving Sid a hug. “What's your other question?”_

_“What about the vows?”_

_“Now that's a poser. I imagine that there are . . . well, protocols to observe. We do actually have to make promises to each other; not only is that traditional, I think it's nice.”_

_“I do too,” Sid said, giving him a quick kiss._

_“But the officiant will no doubt have that part under control. I am assuming,” he said dryly, “that there will be no mention of obeying. On either of our parts.”_

_“Uh, I don't think we need to talk about our sex games during our wedding.”_

_“Good point. Although now that you bring it up: if I haven't told you before, I'm quite eager to resume playing 'The Mountie and the Mountebank'—preferably from the exact moment we left off last time.”_

_“Left off? Or got off?” Sid leered._

_“I rather think they're the same. Now then: are we finished?”_

_“No,” Sid said definitely. “We haven't talked about the personal part. Where we say things to each other.”_

_“I'm not sure I'm ready to discuss that yet.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“Because . . . well, to be frank: that's the most important part of the whole ceremony, really. And I don't know what I want to say.”_

_“Well, I don't either. Which is why we should talk about it.”_

_Andrew stared at him. “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband?”_

_“Don't be a smart ass. Look, Sasha: I'm not saying that we have to decide right this minute what we're going to say. Believe me, I'm not. But I kind of think . . . no, I_ definitely _think that we need to decide what, uh, we want to accomplish.”_

_“I'm not quite sure what you mean,” Andrew said slowly._

_“I mean . . . uh . . . fuck, I'm so bad with words. I guess I mean: what kind of . . . message? Maybe that's close, but it isn't exact. What do we want the people who are there to . . . take away from our wedding. Kind of?”_

_His brow creased, Andrew sat in silence for a minute. “Do you mean: what kind of tone?”_

_“Maybe. Look: you know how you have this thing about not lying. And because of that, you're real good at . . . misdirecting, I guess.”_

_“Or deflecting,” Andrew agreed, smiling a little._

_“Right. And me? I've spent years learning how not to say . . . well, anything, really. So . . . I want this part of the wedding to be . . . different. Uh . . . genuine! That's the word. I want the people there to see us like we are when we're alone together. The real us. Sid and Andrew. Open. Honest. Emotional. Loving. Laughing. Any of those things. Even chirping. I know that I'm the one who's been saying, 'the wedding is for everybody else,' and I believe that—even here—but there's a difference. This is the one part of the wedding that's all ours. We're giving ourselves to each other, Andrew: we're soul mates and we're perfect for each other. I want everybody who's there to know what that's like.”_

_Andrew studied him—intently. “That was . . . extremely eloquent,” he said finally. “And in theory, I find the idea quite wonderful. But . . . what would we say? Or do?”_

_“Anything we want,” Sid said firmly. “You can sing something. Or recite limericks. Tell embarrassing stories about me. Make me laugh. Or make me cry. It doesn't matter. You're you and I'm me: let's give them us.”_

_“Is the world ready for the two of us, complete and unfiltered?” Andrew wondered with a grin. “All right, Sidney: you've convinced me. It sounds perfect. At the risk of sounding ridiculous, though: I do think we need to coordinate this a little. I don't mean I want us to share what we're going to say in advance—in fact, I don't want that at all—but I do think we should at least pick, oh, complementary . . . topics? Would that be the right word?”_

_Frowning, Sid said, “I don't know. Give me an example.”_

_“Well, we could talk about what we imagine our live will be like once we're married. Our hopes for the future. Something like that.”_

_After turning that over in his mind, Sid offered, “You know what? We could do either of those things. But I think what I really want to talk about is how meeting you changed my life.”_

_“For the better, I hope.” He laughed as Sid swatted him, and then leaned forward and gave Sid a kiss. “It need hardly be said, but likewise. Very well,_ mon oie: _I'll start thinking about what to say. And if I lack inspiration, it's good to know that I have your permission to sing.”_

_Sid had to laugh. “From the look on your face, you already have something in mind, don't you?”_

_Andrew grinned. And sang, “'I feel the earth move under my feet.'”_

********** 

> Waiting for the wedding of _@AndrewSingleton_ and Sidney Crosby to start!
> 
> Absolutely incredible setting!
> 
> [Pic]
> 
> [Pic]
> 
> Ceremony in the garden.
> 
> [Pic]
> 
> Wonderful Baroque ensemble playing!
> 
> About to begin: Handel fanfare!
> 
> OMG: RBG is performing wedding!!
> 
> Here come grooms!
> 
> With parents as attendants!
> 
> So happy!
> 
> [Pic]
> 
> AS & SC kissing parents
> 
> Then each other!
> 
> [Pic]
> 
> Still kissing!
> 
> STILL kissing!
> 
> _@penguins_ cheering! _#NHLove_
> 
> Everybody laughing!
> 
> OMG: SC laugh!!! IDEK!
> 
> RBG starting
> 
> Mozart reference!
> 
> AS about to sing!!
> 
> Don't recognize
> 
> Sposi sii contenti in amore.
> 
> SC rapt!!
> 
> OMG.
> 
> OMG.
> 
> Incredible! _#nowords_
> 
> Bravos for _@AndrewSingleton_ from _@penguins #NHLove_
> 
> Time for vows!

**********

Andrew turned to Sid and took his hands: both sets were shaking a little, but the smiles they shared were not at all hesitant. Sid could see Andrew's heart in his eyes; he drank in the sight.

It was, of course, no surprise that Andrew's voice carried clearly throughout the crowd.

“I, Alexander Andrew Singleton Copley, called Sasha by my family, and Ace by my hockey family,” he winked at Sid, whose own heart, already near to bursting, swelled even more, “take you, Sidney Patrick Forbes Crosby, as my husband. I do this with a heart full of joy at our union, a soul full of hope for our shared future, and a mind that is utterly certain that we are _rodstvenyye dushi—_ soul mates.”

He paused for a second; his grip intensified.

“When we met, Sidney, I was damaged. I was afraid to open my heart. I hid behind walls I had built myself. I existed, but I did not live. I sang of love, but would not let myself look for it. I was content, but not happy. I laughed, but it had a hollow sound.

“And then, one day, waiting for my breakfast, I heard something. A sound I'd never encountered before. I looked across the restaurant and I saw you. Laughing. And your laughter was so honest, so alive, so full of joy—so unlike my own—that I found myself being drawn to it—and to you.

“It was your laugh—your wonderful, ridiculous, genuine laugh—that brought us together, Sidney. And as we became friends, we laughed often, you and I. And when we got closer, affection grew into fondness, and then blossomed into love. We laughed even more—and the sound of mine no longer echoed in my empty chest. Your love for me helped me conquer my fears; I was no longer afraid to live, no longer afraid to love. No longer afraid to laugh as wholeheartedly as you. No longer afraid to cry. No longer afraid to feel. Your love for me is the greatest gift I have ever been given—and it all started with your laugh.

“In the two years we've been together, we've experienced many things: injuries and illness; triumphs and set-backs; long periods of separation, when I sang in one place and you played in another; infrequent and often too-brief reunions when we were able to meet. Joy. Passion. And through it all, our relationship has been marked by two things in particular: whether in person, on the phone, or over the Internet, we have shared our lives, and our hearts, with each other; and that sharing has always been mutual: born of respect, nurtured by affection, bolstered by concern, and sustained by laughter. We have been, and continue to be, friends. Partners. Soul mates. And after today, husbands.”

He paused again. “Perhaps there are many people who would not choose, as we have, to spend the rest of our lives together. We both have demanding careers. For the foreseeable future, we will spend much of our time apart. Beginning and raising a family will be unusually challenging for us. And much of our lives will be subject to public scrutiny. But I say to you, here, today, that all of that is unimportant when balanced with the rewards of loving you, and being loved in return. Sidney, you have helped me to truly live and to truly love—and I now know that I cannot do either without you.”

Andrew had to stop there, to swallow.

“And I know this as well. Leaving matters of geography aside: we will never let anything important come between us. Unless,” and then he grinned, “you win the Cup again. And if that happens, Sidney? I'm afraid I'll have to insist that the Cup get its own pillow.”

When the laughter died down, Sid said brightly, “I can live with that!” Which of course caused more laughter.

Andrew's smile nearly bisected his face. He squeezed Sid's hands. “Sidney, you are the song of my heart. May we love, laugh, and sing together. Forever.”

**********

Sid didn't care if it was breaking protocol or not; he pulled his hands free so that he could throw his arms around Andrew. He hugged him tightly, and when he thought he could speak again, he whispered, “Forever.” Then he cleared his throat, took one step back, and then reached into Andrew's left pocket.

“This one's mine, right?” he asked, pulling out a handkerchief.

Andrew laughed a little, and nodded.

Sid used it, confiding to the judge, “Andrew always carries two.” There was a ripple of laughter through the audience, but from the sounds of things, Sid wasn't the only one who needed a moment.

He pocketed the handkerchief and took Andrew's hands back in his.

“Andrew, I've said it before and I'll say it now: you're a tough act to follow. But I'll do my best.”

He cleared his throat one more time.

“I, Sidney Patrick Forbes Crosby, called far too many things on the ice to repeat here,” he flashed a quick grin at Andrew's huffed laugh, “take you, Alexander Andrew Singleton Copley, to be my husband. I do this because I love you, just like you love me. You are my soul mate. We complete each other.”

He smiled at Andrew. Before he got started on his actual speech, though. . . .

“You know, I never used to like my laugh; I always did my best to keep it under wraps. But I can't tell you how many times I've thanked God for it since the day we met. Because if it hadn't been for my laugh, we might not have met. And we wouldn't be here today. And that would be terrible, because Andrew: meeting you changed my life.”

A tiny part of Sid's brain was impressed at how smoothly he'd managed to get to where he needed to be. “You could say that meeting you gave me a life: and you would be right. Before we met, I only felt alive on the ice. Meeting you changed that—and me.

“You see,” he took a deep breath, “before that, I was called Sidney Crosby, but my real designation was 'Hockey Robot number 19870807-C.'” He didn't allow himself to be distracted by Andrew's startled eyebrow raise as he hastened to explain, with all necessary emphasis, “The 'C' stands for _Canada._ ”

Once he was sure there were no misunderstandings, he continued by confiding, “And I was a very good hockey robot. I never tried to exceed my parameters. I limited my sensory experiences to when I was on 17,000 square feet of ice. In between those times, I shut down all non-essential systems.”

He didn't look, but he could tell a good portion of his audience was probably asking itself, “What the fuck is he doing?” even as they tried to keep their laughter to themselves; Andrew was having a good deal of trouble doing that too, and from the sound of things, Daniel and Elisabeth weren't even trying. Taylor certainly wasn't. Nor were most of the Pens.

“And then I met you. And even though I now know that I was instantly attracted to you, I didn't recognize that at the time. How could I? You didn't play hockey. And therefore, what I was feeling just wasn't in my data sets. But when you sang for us?” He shook his head. “That's when my metamorphosis really began.

“Andrew: the sound of your voice infiltrated my firewall. It unbalanced my servos and altered my programming. It activated subroutines I didn't even know I had. When we became friends, my menu options expanded. Knowing you upgraded my BIOS. Spending time with you re-partitioned my hard drives. Sleeping with you—well, maybe we shouldn't talk about my peripherals.” He was much more successful at keeping a straight face than Andrew was.

“I began to exceed my parameters until one day I realized: my neural net had expanded to the point that I was capable of love. That there was more to life than rounded-corner rectangles of ice. That I could actually live when I wasn't on them. As long as I could have you.

“It was a gradual process of discovery, but I kept at it—iteration is one of my strong points—and more important, _we_ kept at it. Every meeting, every phone call, every text reinforced the message. And every time you sang to me . . . I heard my name. My name, and not my designation. Until finally, one day, I was completely alive. Fully functional. Not a single unit, but half of a loving whole. Like you just said, I had existed, but now I lived. And I loved.

“And when you got sick . . . I deliberately disengaged my safety protocols and let the whole world know: hockey robots can have a life. Hockey robots can love. Because even hockey robots deserve those things. Just like every human being deserves them too. I've learned many things since we met, Andrew, but that's one of the most important.

“I love you, Andrew. I love all of your names. And I love all of you. I love your voice, of course: it's sweeter than any goal horn during the regular season, and just as sweet as any during the playoffs or finals. I love the green in your eyes: it's nothing like the green the Stars wear; much more like the green that the Wild do. I love your nose, which is the exact angle of the note in the Blues' logo. I love your lips, especially after we've been kissing, when they're the same color as the Av's home uniforms. Your teeth are whiter than any visiting team's sweaters, shinier than their helmets, and for sure they're straighter than the tape on any stick I've ever played with. I love. . . .”

Sid's voice was drowned out by Andrew's laughter; to give him credit, he'd lasted a little longer than Sid had expected: he'd thought the nose would do it. Sid waited patiently.

“I love. . . .”

“Sidney! Stop!” Andrew was almost crying.

“Why, Sasha? I have more than 20 teams to go. And,” he leered, “I haven't even gotten to your good parts yet!”

Andrew convulsed again. “Oh God, Sidney,” he eventually managed, “I don't want to pee myself at our wedding!”

“Why not?” Tommy called out; “Nealer already has!”

Then someone else—Kane?—joined in. “So has Sharpy.”

Andrew and Sid looked at each other as things began to escalate. And then they both lost it.

When everybody had pretty much recovered, Sid said to the judge, “I'm almost done, I promise. But I have one more thing to say.

“Andrew: can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, Sidney: you may.”

“It's kind of overdue, but . . . now that you know what I'm really like? Will you marry me?”

Andrew's whole heart was in his smile. “You bet your impressive ass I will!”

**********

Giggling almost uncontrollably, Sid pushed Andrew into the mansion's master suite and staggered in after him.

“I can't feel my feet,” he announced.

“I'll help you look for them later,” Andrew said. “After I pee.” Swaying slightly, he propelled himself towards the bathroom. “Good God, this room is bigger than my whole apartment.”

Holding on to one of the bedposts, Sid managed to get his shoes off.

“I found my feet,” he said, padding into the bathroom; “those shoes cut off my circulation. Move over.”

“Wait your turn.”

“Hey, we're married. We can share.”

“Who says romance dies the minute you leave the altar,” Andrew quipped.

“Not me. Besides, we didn't have an altar. Fuck,” he groaned, “that feels good.”

When he finally finished, he washed his hands, went back into the bedroom, and plopped down next to Andrew.

Andrew squeezed his hand. “What a night.”

“It was incredible.” Sid shook his head. “I can't believe people used to have parties like this all the time.”

“I actually don't believe that, to be honest,” Andrew told him. “They couldn't have. But it was truly wonderful. And unforgettable. A once in a lifetime event. And I told Dad so.”

“I did too. And so did a lot of people, I guess.” Sid yawned. “Sorry. So tell me, Sasha: what was your favorite part? Of the party, I mean.”

Andrew didn't hesitate. “Our first dance. Without a doubt.” He shivered a little. “I can't tell you how wonderful that was. And a total surprise.”

“I thought you'd like it.” Sid was really happy about it himself. “I mean, it just seemed like . . . I don't know, that there should be words too, not just music.”

Andrew began to sing softly. 

> Parlez-moi d'amour
> 
> Redites-moi des choses tendres. . . .

“I'll never be able to listen to that song without remembering tonight. And how exquisitely Caroline sang it. She was perfect.” He sighed happily. “I told her so. And I also told her it was a tough crowd.”

Sid had to laugh. “Uh, I think she knew that. But all of the opera people complimented her.”

“Well, she deserved it. What was your favorite part?”

“As the risk of sounding like a copycat: the song you sang to your grandparents. Uh, the ones on your mom's side. I didn't know you were going to sing. After the ceremony, I mean.”

“Well, I didn't know for sure. But . . . they couldn't be there. Obviously. And I did want to commemorate them.”

“Mission accomplished. And Russ and Miss Ruthie really seemed to like the shout-out.”

“Good; I'm glad.”

“Why weren't you sure? And was that really your grandfather's favorite song?”

“Yes to the second question; he requested it often. I didn't want to say this during the party, but it was the last thing I ever sang to him. As for your first question: I don't know. Singing during the ceremony was one thing, but I didn't want to go overboard.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “Well, I'm glad you did. You know, Taylor and I both loved that movie when we were little. You sounded a lot better than Jiminy Cricket, though.”

_“Merci du compliment, mon oie,”_ Andrew laughed. “You know, I still can't believe everything went so smoothly. We will have _bushels_ of happy memories to entertain ourselves with in our dotage.”

“I guess we will,” Sid said, rolling over and resting his chin on Andrew's chest. “I know I'll never forget the look on Bettman's face when Ovechkin asked him to dance.”

“That was choice, wasn't it?” Andrew agreed. “Alex isn't a bad dancer: at least, once he got it through his head that _I_ was leading.” He sounded so self-satisfied that Sid had to laugh.

“Well, for sure I really liked the fact that everybody danced with anybody they wanted: man, woman, gay, straight—and everything in between. It was . . . nice.”

“It was.” A grin. “I thought Taylor and Anna made a particularly striking couple.”

“I bet Anna would agree with you.”

“I'm sure she would. But speaking of in between: did you notice James and Simon?”

Sid snorted. “Uh, it was kind of hard to miss; I think they danced with that woman half the night. I thought she came with Bradley, but I didn't see them dance at all.”

“She did. And I didn't either. Not that he seemed to mind; he was too busy flirting with Patrick and Abby Sharp. Rather successfully too, in my opinion.” Another grin. “I managed to have a moment alone with him; Bradley wouldn't admit anything directly, but I strongly suspect he brought her here specifically to meet James. And Simon, of course. She's from Nashville.” His tone spoke volumes.

It took Sid a minute. Then he started laughing. “Your dad?”

“Very possibly. Bradley has an extensive assortment of . . . friends. Of the 'wouldn't be bothered by multiple partners' variety.” He paused. “That seems . . . redundant, somehow.” Shaking his head, he resumed, “Anyway: Dad has taken an interest in James' dilemma; I wouldn't be at all surprised if he enlisted Bradley's help. And expertise. And, to use a polite term, networking skills.”

“Now there's an image.”

Andrew patted Sid's back. “Let's get out of these clothes, _mon oie._ ”

“And into each other?”

“Far be it from me to tamper with tradition,” Andrew said in an innocent tone that would have fooled no one. Sid stretched and gave him a quick kiss, then clambered to his feet. He held his hand out and pulled Andrew up and off the bed. Neither had gotten more than his tie undone when a chorus of raucous shouts from outside started up.

“Sid! Oh, Sid! We know you're in there!”

Sid groaned. “Let's ignore them.”

“You actually think that would work?”

“S-i-i-i-i-i-d!”

“I guess not,” Sid sighed. He stalked across the room and flung open the balcony doors. Looking down at the assembled Pens, he said with some disfavor, “What do you assholes want?”

“Where's your better half?” Tanger shouted.

Andrew stepped out beside Sid. “What can we do for you gentlemen?”

Sid snorted.

“Need to make sure Sid know what to do!”

This time, Andrew snorted. “Allow me to assure you, Zhenya, Sidney is quite proficient. In fact,” he eyed Sidney sideways, “you might say that he's fully functional. And programmed in multiple techniques.”

When the hoots had died down, Flower called up, “As Sid likes to say: you can always do better!”

“So we have some advice for him!” That was Nealer.

“And because you're you, Andrew,” Tommy shouted gleefully, “we're gonna sing it!”

Both Sid and Andrew groaned. “Good God,” Andrew muttered. “It's a shivaree.”

“A what?”

“In a word: cock-blocking.”

The motley crew beneath them started vocalizing—there was no way Sid was going to call that sound singing. And it didn't take him long to realize it was the song Andrew had sung to them at the awards.

“At least it's short,” Sid said under his breath.

The noise got louder and louder. And then they got to the end. 

> So Sidney, this rule we propose:
> 
> Always have an Ace in your hole!

The honks of the Canadian hockey goose—and the far more melodic tones of his mate—burst forth into the night. They swept past the serenaders, skittered down the rocky cliff, and flew out over the ocean. Gamboling over the waves together, their echoes sailed towards the east and all the dawns to come, weaving themselves into the fabric of forever.

 

END OF ACT THREE

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. It's hard to believe, isn't it, but the buzzer has sounded, the curtain has fallen, and here we are.
> 
> Two years ago tomorrow, on the first day of Camp NaNoWriMo, I opened a new document and wrote, “Sid has never liked his laugh.” (Actually, I think in the original version it was “Sidney has never liked his laugh,” but I'm too lazy to hunt up the file and . . . oh, who am I kidding? I just checked, and it was, in fact, Sidney.) And exactly a year later, I opened another new document and wrote the words, “The locker room was pandemonium.”
> 
> What will I write tomorrow, when Camp NaNoWriMo begins again? I have no idea, to be honest. (If any of you have some, feel free to send them my way!)
> 
> It's been quite the journey: from a hotel restaurant in Philadelphia to an ocean-side mansion in New England. Sid and Andrew have been through a lot, and for many months, I was the only witness to it.
> 
> That is no longer true. Which is why . . .
> 
> I would like to give credit for this sequel—and make a gift of it—to all of you: Sid and Andrew's loyal fans. Almost certainly, this fic would never have seen the light of day, had all of you not welcomed the first part of their story so enthusiastically.
> 
> I can't thank you enough. For reading, for commenting, for inspiring me. For laughing—and for crying—along with our heroes—and with me. But especially laughing. (You can't see me, but on Sid's behalf, I am trying to figure out in what direction Winnipeg lies.)
> 
> More than a few people have mentioned that they are sad the story is ending. Don't be. (Well, okay. You can be a _little_ sad. But not too much.) You see: the story never ends. As Russ says at the conclusion of the narrative about him and Alex: nothing ever dies, as long as someone remembers. And I would like to think that Sid and Andrew will live on, both as a fond memory of a story that entertained—as well as _in potentia_ —when some of you, perhaps, may recommend it to a friend, or reread this series and relive the story yourselves—or even when others, unknown to any of us at present, encounter it by chance for the first time. (I don't know exactly what that would take—however, stranger things have happened!) 
> 
> All levity aside (which isn't easy for me, but I'll try): you've all been wonderful. It's been incredible, knowing that there are people I've never met (and to whom I'm not related by blood or marriage) who willingly—and seemingly eagerly—read my prose. Despite my near-clinical dependence on adverbs. And semi-colons. (Oops. Well, a little levity is perhaps permissible, under the circumstances!) But seriously: thank you all so much. I owe you all a debt, which the gift of this story can not wholly repay.
> 
> I also have to thank my other source of support and inspiration: my husband. In the interests of continuing a tradition, let me tell you that this time around, he had two favorite lines: Tazer's “'Three-two Hawks!'” and (it probably won't surprise anyone), “'Anna will sing an aria to it. Later.'” (We share, among other things, a similar sense of humor. True story: on one of our first dates, we climbed a fence and trespassed after hours into Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, where we sat in Mary Baker Eddy's tomb and ended up telling each other Dorothy Parker stories. This is why we've been together since God invented dirt.) I dedicate this story to him, because whenever I write anything about love—or about happiness—or about joy—I write from a twinned heart.
> 
>   
>  _L'opera è finita. O è?_   
> 


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